The Revolution - The Remembrance

Deeper crimson of a different sort
Spreads thickly, slowly across this man's scarlet vest
The trails continue as breathing ceases
Blood dripping through beautiful, gun-tousled golden hair
His eyes remain open; he looks ahead
Even in death, his great visions are held and cherished
A flower, a godlet, son and lover of Patria
He fought for his people; he lived and he died for his people

The leader

At his feet lies a man of rough years
A sot who gave his soul away to a god who never saw him
He sleeps now deeper than any inebriety
Wine given up, the haze of drink for the red haze of death

The cynic

Upon a table in a room down below them
A young boy and an old man rest together, both bullet-scarred
Honoured they dream, forever
And the souls of the men who placed them there will never forget

The martyrs

A gamin, the one, a spirit of the streets
Who danced with the smoky wind and sang with the calls of vendors
Who gazed at the stars on rooftops
And sheltered from the rain in the belly of an elephant

The determination

A curate, the other, lover of books
A man who loved flowers and words and thoughts
With nothing in the world he gave himself
And the flag of freedom was his bloodstained jacket

The sacrifice

At the door, at the entrance, is a young man
His beauty was not in his face but in his nature and his words
Three wounds in his chest have left him to die
But his gentle face remains turned upwards, to look at the sky

The philosopher

Beyond him a little ways is an amused smile
Hatless, his hair ruffled lightly by the wind that cools him
Mocking even the cruel guns that took life
True to this mistress, for which he scorned all others in the end

The laughter

Further there are two together, brave companions
One had always the worst of luck, but he laughed at Fortune for her games
The other dreamed of the illnesses he could die from but
In the end he died of a bullet wound, and his comrade embraces him in death

The friends

Near to them lies a man whose hands are worn
A worker, he spent his days in the delicate trade of fan-making
But while his body laboured, his mind flew free
He believed in freedom for all worlds and people, and he fought steadily for it

The dedication

Reclining draped against the barricades
A man who in life was built of fierce words and fiercer actions
All to help the cause he believed in
He stripped the streets to make the bed upon which he now sleeps

The fire

Outside the fortress a boy of words rests
One hand, from which flowery phrases and metaphors used to pour, is tightened on
A chair's leg, as if he sought to pull himself up
He will write no more, but he called out his last words with the bravery of his soul

The poet

Return through the mists to the inside
A gamine lies in the mud, torn blouse exposing the bloody hole in her breast
She died protecting a young man here
She gave him her life and died with his promised kiss upon her forehead

The misery

Two of the men who fought are gone
One came to lose himself in death and was rescued by a treasured letter
The other came to bring him home
They disappeared into the sewers, the only way to freedom from the liberators' dream

The father and the grandson

All around the main characters of this play
There are the extras - but there is not such a thing as a small role
These men who have no names
Are the centres and the people who trusted in everything, the men who battled

The fighters

And a dreamy, thick sadness drifts
Around them all, surrounding every lifeless figure there in wreathes
They're dead, they're gone and, though
Families and friends will mourn them, now only one thing sheds tears over them

The barricade

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