A Tale of Woe

    The reason silence will never reign

    is that the noise in the heart is rain,

music is on the myriad canopies

of an array of a cast of nations,

yes, we refuse to be broken,

we rise up for they who rise,

for the this tune is overpowering,

'tis the song of pure freedom;

it takes the teardrop in the wide open eyes

of a child whose sorrowful, upturned face

stares at me in a questioning gaze,

a face unimpressed by the dazzle

of the rising of the tottering phase

of leaders whose lack of clout does amaze:

I hear the voices in the crowd,

"O' Ichabod!"

I hear the cries of the desperate,

"O' Ichabod!"

The voices are strong, tho' some are hushed,

but the resolve in them will not be crushed;

"No! Ichabod! No Ichabod!"

Ichabod must not be born tonight

for in the distance I see the light,

of a presence that will rise to rule

this land - this land that the just will rule.

(gsk) ©

Ichabod (Hebrew: אִיכָבוֹד‎ ʼīyḵāḇōḏ, – without glory, or "where is the glory?