Through chilly narrow streets in late evening, Past cold black stones of mausoleums, Worn shoes on cobbles, worn feet in haste The blue-black sky and endless shadows A scent of death and then of new life flowing, Ever on to the haven of democracy, Where good men stand undefeated By lies, deceit and hypocrisy. There, will the polemic be given life And there shall it bloom or die in the light Of truth that tarries under stars. For truth is the core, bedrock and corner stone And into the richly prepared future Will this truth shine inexorably. Tonight blood will be spilt on the Pagus, Ink will stream down the steps as blood, The printing press will be hacked like wood And left to rust in the tall grass below. Left to serve as a reminder to those that Espouse propaganda by the self-righteous, To those that would shadow the land in misery And cloud the sky to extinguish light. A new window has opened on the world, Though fleeting it will be as faces peer in And change the truth into falsity; A window onto a seemingly other world, Where everyone can for a time speak freely And the senate can hear once more and Judge righteously in the pure night breeze That shapes the time-worn hill. And praise will be given to the mutineers, To those of The Bounty and Potemkin That shouldered the burden of the dying press And brought it hence to the mighty rock. No speech will be censored or stifled, All will be brought forth into the open, Where wise men look to the stars.