From the time he could walk,

a red diaper baby hankered to march

waving placards like wings, tensility

in his bones, son of a volunteer who

fought in the Lincoln Brigade in ’39.

The lullabies were songs of protest.

Grown up he’s now a Greenpeace

warrior, grappling with Gandhi’s

legacy, chanting songs while

choking on canisters of tear gas,

blown like a rag doll, unmoved

by the thwack of truncheons

or the hooves of horses

or the salty taste of blood, spitting

his teeth, spattered on the ground

like a scattered box of chiclets.

As some sit in arm chairs safely

muttering over newspapers

about what ought to be done,

one son marches like his father,

willing to sacrifice himself,

a North Star no one can see,

hoping to save us before we

are all eclipsed into darkness

as everlasting as the annihilation

of time.

Milton P. Ehrlich