When the mortal remains of our immortal gods are no more
Who’s going to sing our generation’s pains?
When the fight isn’t done, about to be undone
Whose chant can we turn into the hymn of struggle?
When the summer of love is just a memory of a distant memory,
are we ready to love again?
When change needs yet another change
where are our poets with voices of angels and disguised as scary monsters?
When our cheeks are burning red from the slaps history has given
We’re waiting for new prophets and davids to slay the blind goliaths of hate.
writing about music, writing, film and ways of life