The blood of the patriots has dried,
no longer staining the fabric of our dreams
fervent ideals remembered
in dust ensconced history books.

And we are as Javert,
blinded by the comfort of law
mute to the cries
of today's Fantines.

Rest not in peace Mr. Kennedy,
Mr. King, Mr. Chavez
your work remains deficient
for the palette is absolute.

And the cities give birth
to tomorrows patriots
in barrios and ghettos and hoods,
those born to the cries of their brothers.

With callused hands and hungered belly
they will raise their fist
and the thunder of their march
will be the tolling of the bells.

And we the elite
with our Visa's, Clubs and SUV's
will demand of our leaders
the end of this strife.

It is then we will find
once our leaders have fled,
that we have armed the new patriots
for they did the work that we dread.

The new hero's will be different
from those in our past
for finally the colors will mix
in this palette of blood.

~SAS~