In the name of the first warriors,
the keepers of earth’s first truth.
In the name of every soul
that has refused to kneel.
In the name of pain
and the liberation it begets,
that blue fire,
the rarest jewel
on the road to the human heart.
In the name of the footsteps
that carved that road,
of those who fought
the tyrants within themselves.
In the name of Martin Luther King,
the son of true whiteness,
the whiteness of freedom
reborn in the hearts of the enslaved,
where suffering is traded
as commodity and profit.
In the name of Pablo Neruda,
his twenty songs of love
and the single bullet of despair
lodged in the heart
of Salvador Allende.
In the name of
Solitude
and the Macondo
that blooms inside every human soul.
In the name of vengeance
for my father’s killer,
and for the traitor to his crown,
custodians of greed,
priests of gain.
In the name of Hamlet.
In the name of Farhid,
the humble acolyte
in the sanctuary
of all authentic deeds.
In the name of benevolence
working in silence
through the shadowed alleys
of human hands.
In the name of a wounded deer
who still
licks the wound
of her fallen fawn.
In the name of Love,
the oldest warrior,
the last truth.
