Our Moment of Culture

In the Hour of Promise

In the hour of darkness, the hour of dread
You crouch in silence and you stare at the threatening door
And the sweat of your hand is slick on the grip of your shotgun
And the glow of the clock is all the light there is

There is no wisdom in the thing that you have become

There is no purpose to the way that you nurture your fear

The wicked flee, they say, when there is no pursuer

You did no evil; how did you become a wicked man?

In the hour of commerce, the hour of lies
You sit in a box and you stare blindly at a screen
And you jump like the guilty, every time the telephone rings
And count the minutes until you can make your escape

It is not freedom, when you are locked in a prison of your fears

It is not freedom, when you hide through the hours of your life

What is the goal you seek, where is the purpose of your struggle?

Are you starving the beast, or are you simply going mad?

In the hour of promise, the hour of hope
You learn to put aside the fears that keep you crippled
And seek out others, and then share your dreams between you
You bide your time, but do not put off the time to move

We seek the place in which to find the thing we desire

We join the minds that share the purpose of our heart

There is no common thread with us and the herds around us

We will find freedom, or we will die in its pursuit

In the hour of stillness, the hour of peace
You tend your garden near your quiet, private home
In a hard and holy place whose very name is never spoken
And callused friends arrive, to share the bread you baked

We are not martyrs, we are not mendicants of fear

We do not consent to the sacrifice of life

The beast that claims to own our lives does not concern us

We seek out quiet lanes on which to go our way