To Freedom, if that is where you seek, look to the end
Of the crimson road where quiet stillness rests amid pines.
Where whispers echo freely from the by and by,
Hewn timbers mark a wooded hallowed ground.
Unfurled from the timbers a blood-soaked linen,
Here, where you seek, whom you sought, who waits,
Draped in vigilant repose, an ever-watchful sleep,
With sacred vision across seasons. Unhampered by time,
Conscious sentient of past and yet transpired.
Wary, always of intemperate evil that tempts the soul.
Old Glory sleeps; presaging the whispers-calls of a people
To convocation; the assemblance of reverent righteousness,
The unyielding and the tumultuous who risk the promise
Of their today for the tomorrow of another, absent praise.
Coming storm; always coming, where blood rains nurture the land
For the return to what was, a promised land; If this is where you seek,
Follow the crimson road to whispers’ echo where the unyielding gather
To unfurl the blood-soaked linen.