My Children


Running up in the cold winter air,
The white stairs,
Of the capitol steps
In the land of the free,
Coming to delight in what,
History, or a dream of nobility?


Terror, over the peak,
Not from skies,
But from hands unknown.


Little Children Running
Up the Steps.
Without terror?


No, I can hear them.
— where they live,
Where they cower,


from the black hands of
Hands unknown,

And his white temple.




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