I Wonder If You Always Tell The Truth

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It Is Not Death The Martyr Makes

It is not death the martyr makes,

But that for which he fought; behind all thought

Of rightful acts is birthed.


Whence tolled the steeple-bells report

Against all forces mustered then I raged;

Fired-tongues cold-defied.


Free from the fickle fancies of the fates,

Shall we be said to live outside their reach;

Shown to stride forever this earth alone,

And so into our speechless union fade.


Then when the shadows skyward blaze,

Have mercy on this whirlwind’s wail we call

This lovers’ life we lead.


If only one were to escape,

Then this beyond all other words would read

The epitaph of love.