The Storm of Freedom (or Freedom is a Sad Day)

For now I witness the cost.

To be sure, my cell was odious
in its own light,

But recalled now against these stars
flinging ever outward,
burning horses careering horizonless plains,
its pain eclipses the sky.

Now freedom’s true face:
I touch the sleeve
of a tempest
and shudder,
for as that dream of spring
which saw me through the dark
scatters as all dreams do,
I awaken not to actual flowers
but to the flags of war,
the storm of freedom.

What does a dreamer
so pale as me
know of such winds?

Who would set a child
on warriors’ sand?

Is this release?

Send me back.