Spring

The curfew lingers but the city burns.
The streets are empty of policemen, but
Full of the people, crying, chanting, singing.
The calls for change insistently are ringing
Through streets that should by order have been shut.
Is this how the pre-dawn shadow learns
The sun is rising? Or is it the glow
Only of fire, falsely from the east
Pretending to be day? How can we know?
Until the possibilities have ceased
To change, we cannot from afar foretell
Whether this is freedom marching in
Or simply just another form of hell
Enveloped in destruction, fire, and din.