hail to the chief
for iron thrones were made
and the hats of tradition have been hung
placed on the heads of jesters
with fear and loathing
they call upon the races of men
to scale the icy walls of this earth
to find a lofty perch
for colored banners yet wave
and when the rockets glare no longer red
we may all fade to black
but this is not another song of war
but only homage to the fantasies of greatness
there among the crumbling aqueducts they feasted
on women and wine
and spoke the tales victory
even as the choking vines tightened
even as the great coin faces found homely pockets to fill
the written fire of words found walls to collect
dissidents to rouse
and people to clutch the roots of change
why does this vicious cycle spin
like wheels on a brickyard sunday
why do the learned not see
for even a veil so thin should cast a weary gaze
so will we find ourselves amongst the rubble
knowing not of the coming storm
or will we reach to stay the pillars that weaken
will we bring home the banners of glory
to find them resting with each and every soul
together lifted to reasonable aspirations
find yourself pondering the choice i give you
and let the weight of such things be upon your mind
for in the darkening hour
the strong light of reason may yet find the cracks
and when you lift foot to pavement
seeking out your day’s reform
think not of gold and silver
but of the children starving
for yes they live
and yes they die
not so very far from the door of your home
-Jason Cyrus Akhtarekhavari 4/26/12
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