Pedestrians, turned rulers of the asphalt

The fist
clenched
is only a sign of strength
if done by thousands
and not ones and twos
isolated and rageful,
the injustice flowing like
table wine at a summer picnic

the flag
brilliant red
is only a sign of unity
if flown over streets
taken by pedestrians
turned rulers of the asphalt
for all this is their land

the revolution
true and lasting
is only a sign of progress if
we join together for a cocktail afterwards
to say that we did this.

Rarely what there will be then

When the final drop
is wrested from the hell-scorched
bowels of an earth clinging
to what it has, and which
we mortal, animate souls
should have never approached
the sinking sensation of
society,
frenzied in what there is
now, and rarely
what there will be then
will rise from their stupor
and see that despite
previous reports
we cannot eat sand
and sun-blasted stone