Red for Rangoon
They’re saying to don red clothing,
For unity with freedom bleeders;
Rangoon moral authority makers,
Dreamers of peaceful revolution and
A world of star gazers and monks.
But when the baton meets the bald head
What power does prayer and protest have,
Let alone the color of the shirt I wear?
A Molotov cocktail and a sniper
Or a chant and a song, what revolution
Has been born here on my television?
The princess elect has been moved
From house arrest to a prison cell.
A disgruntled postman seized
Power and fancies himself king.
A world of sympathy knows not
How to rectify the beleaguered beauty
Of the possessionless peacemaker.
Blinded by tear gas and deafened by
Automatic rifles, tortured in the bowels
Of an unidentified chamber.
How this red shirt does so little and why
A fist in the air fails to empathize.
There are no strong words, only strong arms
And tomorrow's revolution will be televised.
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