Liberty holds the puzzle of America within.
Free is the silver city, more certain than gold.
To transmute the stained prosaic to a deeper end
is the task that will end when I am dead; add finite generations
None of them mine.
All of them mine.
What arrogance to write of freedom and not march!
To face the abyss lip and call for measurement.
To stand and not step forward – no leap of faith
Could compass the fullness of our debt
That very debt that bows the shoulders low
Must lift the purpose high
And walk the path lined with the everyday
In liberty’s direction, come what may.