First the clowns, the politicians, the warriors, the oppressed,
Then the historians, the scientists, the artisans, the poets.
Bring them together alongside a pristine forest stream
Where the sun professes no interest and hides behind the clouds.

Let them curse and shout and slam their fists
And maybe, just maybe, they'll decide to put
Aside their individual conceits, their self-righteousness,
Hold hands, begin to dance and sing an old

Slave song about reaching up, moving toward the light
Where fire and ice sit side by side in mutual acceptance,
Where the notes of their voices become clarions
For a tomorrow that has long waited for hatred to stop.



    Donald Everett Axinn
    From Travel In My Borrowed Lives


    Artwork:   "City Fathers" by John O'Dal

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