The Prison Of Force

With giant footsteps and a strident voice

Throughout the night,

A giant marched through the hallway.

Whispers could be predicted

From behind smoky window panes—

Soft, rebellious whispers

Which hardly could be heard.

Every night a tall, dark figure

Roamed the streets:

Curious, gleaming eyes peeked

From windows flanking the street

But no mouth dared ask:

“Who are you?”

The force of the invaluable was trapped

In a cellar underground:

Dungeons dominated by ‘phantoms of the dark’—

“Huge, husky figures” as they imagined,

Guarded the prison grilles by the night.

Outside the fortress of trammels,

Letters shrieked out in bold gray:

“THE PRISON OF FORCE”

Some passer-by remarked,

“What does that mean?”

The giant was standing at the prison gates

And murmured in a hot tone:

“I will guard your palace,

You guard mine.”

On the street in broad daylight,

Wrecked buses with shattered glasses

And worn-out engines lay by;

Lost children died helplessly,

And the giant slept.

Night drew in again:

It was the time for his stroll.

The citizens were on their nerves:

Taut and shaken with fear.

Again those giant footsteps and the strident voice

And the marching of the giant through the hallway—

And the oppressed silence of the onlookers.