Reaches to this shore:
This partial place
Where broken monuments to stone-dead hopes
Stand in the rubble,
By men with solemn ribbons on their chains.
We, who have glimpsed,
A better light,
Flailing our way through scrambled pilgrimage,
With stone-grazed hands and shins,
And count our wounds as worthy;
Give us strength
To travel further, harder,
To do more,
And to be unafraid of sitting still
Under the willows, where the old lyres hang,
Mourning our exile,
Mourning our own kind,
Waiting until the morning of Love’s lovely dawn,
Claiming the promised land here in the dark.
May all our tears be rain.