THE EXILE (for all the exiles and outsiders)

My friend,
Has not seen
His father’s grave.
He could not touch
His mother’s face.
So many deaths
Since freedom fled.
And in those years
He fought so brave.
Keeping memories,
So precious,
To be saved.
Through art and love,
With faith,
He’s lived a life
For a freedom
Which he craves.
And now that old bell
Is ringing strong.
That time is coming
And I call to you.
So proud,
To be your friend.
It cannot now be long.    © Will Barton 2011

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