Patrick Stanley wrote the poem the day after their sentencing for the Earth and Space Plowshares II, from Maxwell Federal Prison Camp where he was serving a ninety day sentence for his actions at the School of the Americas.

For the Three

Notes
of the symphony you created
still lingering.
The symphony taken by
the kangaroo courts
and the men in their suits
and medals.

Despite the quickly fading song,
what once was great
will remain so
with a blaring sound
in the hearts of those who love.

The journey is long
and the shit is deep,
but it’s slightly less
for the blood you poured
and the hammers you beat.

The flimsy skin of the money-machine,
the war-machine
(is there a difference?)
splits a bit more,
wounding the beast
mortally…
and this time,
beyond repair.

All that is left
is furthering this feat
using ourselves as the salt
of which Christ spoke
and throwing ourselves deeper,
deeper,
deeper
into the wound.
Deeper,
deeper,
deeper
into the belly of the beast.

To those without a face;

without a name;
the killed, mangled, mutilated
un-honored by the black text
of news and matter
and memory
rotting in the pits of lye and dirt
rather than wrapped
in the warmth of a nation—world
only the tears of the closest
to water your grave.

And it continues never-ending.
Caesar’s wrath
engulf the flames of children
and children yet to come
and cut
with tongues and swords of lies
pedestaling the bedside intestines
to the mantle
while the button receives the display
of black tribute
for black deaths.

This song is for you.
Oh,
nameless mother…
faceless father…
lifeless child…
rest well in the peace war brings.