The Brave
They are those who do not break
even as the scepter wrests
what glory there be
standing alone against tyranny
as meek, silent-staring eyes gather
to look askance at the tasks left undone.
The brave often stand alone and die that way.
They'll lie peaceful, silent, unseeing.
Finally uncaring.
They stood alone - and died that way-
never knew silent-staring shame
for the tasks left undone.
The brave die alone against brute power
every day and on every windswept plain.
And spill their blood that the meek
inherit a world they cannot bear to know.
From sea to shining sea.
November 6,1994
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem