When the fruit ripens it is time to harvest,
Or it falls and lies in the mud of winter
In the storms of war when the world is angry.
Then it is forgotten until the snow thaws
And the sweet smell of a new year’s fermenting.
A crowd gathers as the rain and hail comes down
Like nails on shanty town roofs,
Like promises the landlord will not keep,
Like the lies that faithless lovers tell.
Caught between seasons the people wait.
And when they rise they dance.
And when they dance a statue falls in the square.
By the spring it will be dust from the stones
The people hurled at the soldiers.
The stones become butterflies in the sun.
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This post was written by Geoffrey Heptonstall