What has happened to Revolution?
Where does she run, where does she sleep?
Is she dead?
Where is the grave of Revolution?
Hidden in the brambles of an ancient field?
Show me where she lies I don’t believe it.
I hear her singing far away in a distant place.
Prove to me Revolution is done
Or anyone has lost or won ,
That we have arrived in the promised land,
The democracy, the Republic we've long awaited.
Did Revolution retire after 1776?
Was she stillborn in Russia in 1917?
Did Stalin step on the throat of her song?
Was she buried with the Hippie in San Francisco,
Or in Chicago, Vietnam, Attica, in Congress, or on T.V.?
Did you let the torch go out because you thought Revolution was finished
When the American Dream became a formula for playing the stock market?
Show me the corpse of Revolution I don't believe you.
Show me the grave covered with flowers and poems and empty bottles of wine.
Who remembers the eulogy, the service, the crying orphans of Revolution?
There is no evidence, no murder weapon.
She has been beaten, raped, left bleeding lying in a cold cobblestone alley
Surrounded by nurses in intensive care but not dead;
Injured, disfigured, having a near-death experience but not dead never dead.
Revolution may be lying on a moldy mattress in a crumbling warehouse,
Or filed away in the back ward of some facility,
Misdiagnosed, writing manifestoes in her head,
Whispering faintly through cracked lips into tender ears pressed close.
Not dead in Paris, Prague or Budapest
Not dead in Moscow, Memphis or Vilnius
Revolution is alive now in you and me
When we balk at another's command,
Refuse to march in step,
Protest high taxes, low wages, unlawful detention, child labor,
Undeclared war, occupation, "enhanced interrogation",
Sweatshops in China, Nicaragua, California, New York.
Alive when you speak truth, decide for yourself, read any book or pamphlet, say "no"
Or "yes."
Revolution revolves, returns, rebuilds, restores, replies, renews, remains, revamps, and
replaces.
She lives in spite and because of the World Trade Organization, Trilateral Commission,
World Bank, CIA, FBI, compassionate conservatives,
I saw her picture in a book
Or maybe Time or even Look;
I saw her dancing off Carson Street in Pittsburgh
Spangles, bangles, belly bare dancing to World Beat rhythm.
I saw her with Hindu priests, highway saints, psychotic messengers, voodoo alcoholics, artists, poets,
and thieves.
I saw her barefoot naked in a field dancing to invisible music,
I saw her in the back seat of a car sliding down a neon street,
I saw her in the sky high up she looked like an eagle dressed like the wind hair swept
back like a cloud in the Carolina sky.
Don't tell me she's dead she lives in my radio.
Revolution may be lying pinned beneath a tank in Tienenman Square,
She might be buried in a shallow grave in Mississippi,
Or dragged to pieces along a lonely Texas blacktop,
But she is not dead.
If she sleeps let her sleep she earned it in Johannesburg.
She had a busy day, let her rest.
When she wakes let us bathe her in milk, clothe her in light
Walk with her to greet the new day, the one where dreams come true.
I hear her breathing softly in the next room
Stirring lightly in her gentle night.
I ponder her fate, read about her in old books, see her in a documentary
I shut my eyes
See her holding hands
With her sisters Hope and Liberty,
Silhouettes dancing
In the horizontal sun.
Michael R. Hill
Originally published in The White Bufallo Gazette
Where does she run, where does she sleep?
Is she dead?
Where is the grave of Revolution?
Hidden in the brambles of an ancient field?
Show me where she lies I don’t believe it.
I hear her singing far away in a distant place.
Prove to me Revolution is done
Or anyone has lost or won ,
That we have arrived in the promised land,
The democracy, the Republic we've long awaited.
Did Revolution retire after 1776?
Was she stillborn in Russia in 1917?
Did Stalin step on the throat of her song?
Was she buried with the Hippie in San Francisco,
Or in Chicago, Vietnam, Attica, in Congress, or on T.V.?
Did you let the torch go out because you thought Revolution was finished
When the American Dream became a formula for playing the stock market?
Show me the corpse of Revolution I don't believe you.
Show me the grave covered with flowers and poems and empty bottles of wine.
Who remembers the eulogy, the service, the crying orphans of Revolution?
There is no evidence, no murder weapon.
She has been beaten, raped, left bleeding lying in a cold cobblestone alley
Surrounded by nurses in intensive care but not dead;
Injured, disfigured, having a near-death experience but not dead never dead.
Revolution may be lying on a moldy mattress in a crumbling warehouse,
Or filed away in the back ward of some facility,
Misdiagnosed, writing manifestoes in her head,
Whispering faintly through cracked lips into tender ears pressed close.
Not dead in Paris, Prague or Budapest
Not dead in Moscow, Memphis or Vilnius
Revolution is alive now in you and me
When we balk at another's command,
Refuse to march in step,
Protest high taxes, low wages, unlawful detention, child labor,
Undeclared war, occupation, "enhanced interrogation",
Sweatshops in China, Nicaragua, California, New York.
Alive when you speak truth, decide for yourself, read any book or pamphlet, say "no"
Or "yes."
Revolution revolves, returns, rebuilds, restores, replies, renews, remains, revamps, and
replaces.
She lives in spite and because of the World Trade Organization, Trilateral Commission,
World Bank, CIA, FBI, compassionate conservatives,
I saw her picture in a book
Or maybe Time or even Look;
I saw her dancing off Carson Street in Pittsburgh
Spangles, bangles, belly bare dancing to World Beat rhythm.
I saw her with Hindu priests, highway saints, psychotic messengers, voodoo alcoholics, artists, poets,
and thieves.
I saw her barefoot naked in a field dancing to invisible music,
I saw her in the back seat of a car sliding down a neon street,
I saw her in the sky high up she looked like an eagle dressed like the wind hair swept
back like a cloud in the Carolina sky.
Don't tell me she's dead she lives in my radio.
Revolution may be lying pinned beneath a tank in Tienenman Square,
She might be buried in a shallow grave in Mississippi,
Or dragged to pieces along a lonely Texas blacktop,
But she is not dead.
If she sleeps let her sleep she earned it in Johannesburg.
She had a busy day, let her rest.
When she wakes let us bathe her in milk, clothe her in light
Walk with her to greet the new day, the one where dreams come true.
I hear her breathing softly in the next room
Stirring lightly in her gentle night.
I ponder her fate, read about her in old books, see her in a documentary
I shut my eyes
See her holding hands
With her sisters Hope and Liberty,
Silhouettes dancing
In the horizontal sun.
Michael R. Hill
Originally published in The White Bufallo Gazette
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