Evariste

O, what hast thou done to my beloved land?
Its streets and alleys, once so full, now stand
Desolate, a shadow of their former grace.
And what of my dear son, his youthful face?

He vanished, leaving not a word for me,
While people’s woes resound in misery.
I know not what befalls the human race,
Pray tell, on what foundation do we base
Our claim to be a nation proud and free?
When all oppress the poor with cruelty,

Who, year on weary year, have longed in vain.
What more canst thou profess, O one so plain
In falsehood, wandering in unknown ways,
Deceiving me through countless nights and days?

Too long hast thou prolonged our darkest night,
Each mind now bends, as if to shun the light.
Like all the world, I too am sore oppressed,
In contemplation deep, my soul distressed.

The tale unchanging, like an endless stream,
A haunting vision, like a waking dream.

What have you done, I ask, to this fair land of mine? Its streets, once teeming with the life and laughter of the day, are now slowly emptying, a gradual decline into the void. And what of my precious son, who left without a word, a question, a backward glance? The people’s troubles, worries and woes echo in the air, a cacophony of sorrows nobody knows. I wonder, I ponder, what’s become of us all? On what foundation do we stand, we who claim to be the land of the free? But the poor, the oppressed, the wretched and the meek bear the brunt of everyone’s disdain, waiting, waiting, year after year, for a change that never came. And you, with your lies and your deceit, wandering in the unknown, a mystery complete. You’ve prolonged this night, this endless dark, each mind a-swirl with thoughts, a-bend like a tree in the park. And I, like the world, oppressed and forlorn, sit here, a-thinking, a-worrying, from dusk till dawn. The story remains a tale retold, a cycle unbroken, a fate untold. Ah, the stream of consciousness, the flow of the mind, the thoughts that unwind, in this style refined.

Yet, 

Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.