The triumph of the meek will be
Loud. Crowds of complex hearts pulled
Out of dying chests, vests of steel thrown off, melted
Down and welded into cymbals and trombones.
The groans and creaks of grief will cease;
The pains and aches of age will fade;
Instead, the heads of gray will raise,
Meanwhile, my tongue is fire, eager to
Burn, yearning to inflame the anger I suppress
Unless a wafting wind, incendiary, wins, and
My fire-tongue levels the house. The sounds
Of burning dreams are screamed complaints.
Yet saints who keep meek seep love to me
And the lowly-hearted man still holds my hand
The blessed state of being will be
Shown, owned up by all. The fault is in our game,
For remedying shame means meekness,
Salving jealous anger, weakness.
Pull a heart from a dead chest: the surest
Way to save a life. Knife in a surgeon’s hand is safest.
So the triumph of the silent will be violently boisterous: