Two doves preside over the chanting crowd
where beacons shine on unknown lands, the last chance of survival.
This light washes over the streets of the dirty underground,
rivers of alien ice distributing last night's protests.
Feet kicking in rhythm to the musings of free-speech,
smashing against new pavement to protect faceless children.
But with their violence all is lost.
Signs of change made from pulverized paper,
now wet with the blood of diverse humanity.
Still the ants keep marching.
With broken arms and patched faces
they dictate to the modern world the idea of a better society.
Yet we are just observers.
We have no horse in this race,
no pride in their territory,
but we smash their faces to the ground and stand upon their broken bodies
in the service of viewing . . . . two white doves.