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June 4, 1997

 

June 4, 1989

 

Monuments of bodies in oppressions distant lands

corpses high, piled rotting in the sun

death strikes the ones who would change,

the ultimate weapon of the fool.

They die in vain, it seems at times,

but their blood will find its voice

if not now then at the throne

where judgment will rejoice.

 

But now, beneath the whitewashed walls,

change must take place and people move

ere human freedom falls to dust

and tyrants wash the world in blood.

 

And on the toy I purchased for my son

“Made in China” proclaims my guilt.

 


June 4, 1989
A poem by Peter Rhebergen

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Each New Day A Miracle
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