The Tempest

A poem of hope in the midst of madness

The raging tempest, blown and black
now shakes our anchors through and through
and man with reckless hate now hacks
against the good and what is true

The prophets cry “the times are mad”
the doom of man is feared to grow
but history is not all sad
and hope does bloom albeit slow

The tide of tales and legends past
show much of courage, kind and fair
they marched along a trumpet’s blast
against the violent gale they dared

Now we, whose time is all but short
can cower, freeze or freely move
with love we aim, their plans to thwart
and risk because we cannot lose