A thousand bullets in a thousand brains
would solve most of their problems. What remains
of any opposition will soon fall
to broken hearts and age. Yet, tense, at night
they'll brood on murders missed. Fear that we'll rise
somehow from death. Their lies will glamorise
us to their shiny children. What we write
somehow survives, however much they burn.
Regrows like bindweed, underneath the ground
Your essays and my sonnets will be found
on barrows, shelves and websites. No return
for you or me, my dears. We're dead and gone.
Their children praise us. Freedom's just begun.