Martyrdom Doesn’t Become Me
Maker, look on me --
see the depth of my achievements.
The black fliers in the smoking sky
shade our burning flags below.
So many times I could’ve stopped
the march to this conclusion.
But I chased what many have before me --
and forgot to count my feathers.
I acted willfully, guilelessly
-- all to earn a fruitless end.
For not a ruler, leaser, farmer,
met their curtain in this field.
They will say I broke the lines,
in a thousand years but now --
Maker, I would trade those lauds
for any better death than this.