While the tongueless, armless, eyeless, legless
leftovers of the realm
hack the metal monument of malevolence
to death with an ax
after the tyrant’s fall,
While the fathers and sons of the remains of the mash
of the human meat grinder
leap in the street,
unleashing the outrage of ages
smothered under the smile and the dance
that applauded the executioner of their loves,
While hoarse howls and wailing squalls
from dungeons below
unceasingly beg for succor from above,
but—invisible, impalpable, indiscernible in time—
finally succumb,
The oppressed, the suppressed, the repressed above,
now free to answer the caterwauls,
comb the recesses of the vaults
for the source of the pleas of their beloved
but find in the mold only the echoes
of their own muffled voices
calling, calling, calling
from the muzzled hollows of their souls.