The Seventh Overture

On Mailing Lists and published memberships.

It came in the night, the words, ‘It’s our city’

then echoed within many minds. ‘It’s mine.It’s mine.’

The capacity for fear. The fear of knowing ringing in your ears..

The marching bands of Ulster the mirror in this country. Let the protestant right begin tonight, tonight. Racial divides, secret feelings, incidents and accidents, memories and freinds.

Ripples on the stream of humanity

pouring through the gates of 21st Century consciousness.

How Dare you drop a stone in the still pool I like to call home saying ‘One day we will call on you’

Do you imagine ten million eyes staring at you asking the way

or see the defeated drunken gambler you caught in a fight. The noble

savages few passages of a rite, tradition and manners put aside. Instead you focus

for the violent struggle imagined or real, nobody really knows

or cares for a straight jacketed society neatly divided like a cemetery.

Better Go home and read some Plato. Or better still draw him. But do not let

inflamed passions of the weak convince you otherwise. Society is

paralysed by the weak being dominated by the strong, families split in

two, children left behind, or divided like belongings in boxes. Children

grow up the same, isolated, alien families like alien races nothing like each other.

Give children and peace a chance throw away the banner and Michael Jackson said start with the man in the mirror.

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