They call me the drummer. I’m held in a prison.

Though the day, I know, will soon come.

The door will creek open, they’ll take me out.

And I shall die to the beat of a drum.

 

The crime I’ve committed is hardly a new one.

“My songs are unlawful.”  They lie.

I sing for the people, their rights

and  their freedoms.  For this I am going to die.

 

Through a window set high in the wall of my cell

I can gaze at the sky through the bars.

This blue flag of freedom is all that I have

and at night it is studded with stars.

 

In each star I can see, the words of a clause.

Each tells of the rights to be won.

The freedom of speech, without fear of rebuke

or the threat of a death by the gun.

 

I can hear guards walking; their feet make a drumming

their keys,  ring against the stone walls.

The clash of locks turning, the jangle of irons.

The crash of steel doors, then more tears.

 

One day to this music, a priest will attend me.

To hear my confession and prayer.

But I see no sin, in what I have done.

And my fears are only of fear.

 

They will come for me soon; I’m happy to say.

To their music and beat I shall sing.

A door will open, a court yard to greet me,

with my sky flag of freedom flying.

 

My people will come to sing freedom songs.

If I’m able, I’ll be singing too.

The stamp of feet anger, like bass drums beating,

For this deep note shall carry us through.

 

Squaddies will be waiting for their duty with rifles.

I’ll hear their orders, terse and grim.

I’ll see knuckles whiten, to take up the pressure

but not hear sticks rattle on rim.

 

My scarred post, still standing, left there pointing,

to our freedom flag, ablaze in the sky.

And the words the crowd’s singing shall be my anthem.

So my drum will live on; when I die.

 
 

David Garlick, Mexico, November, 1999