The Student Revolt
I am an old man,
My arteries harden,
Yet I can hear the trumpet sound afar off.
My face is lined with the failure of minorities
My hand falters on all occasions of decision
For the field is as on Marston Moor
At nightfall July the second 1644
Four thousand dead.
For the day to me is lost, I cannot fight
My friends on principles, I need their hand
In help.
I can remember time when ‘one world’ was a dream
And then a hope,
When frontiers were friendly and foreigners were funny
And not a threat
To my food
To my drink
To my motor car (this purely hypothetical)
To all I have and ideas too.
The canker was in politics that came to save
And stayed to kill,
In prized possessions that came to please
And stayed to drown the tenderlings of kindness and solicitude,
In sex that came to liberate
And forgot that love had made the world go round.
I am an old man,
My arteries harden,
Yet I can hear the trumpet sound
Afar off.