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In battle zone I met a man, all rags and face of pain
I stopped awhile and spoke his tongue, he never gave his name,
"What ails you sir i spoke with zest how does life treat you so?
Your face unshaven clothes all torn and nowhere left to go,"
He spoke in softest tone on life, surprised at what I'd said,
"I have but words to tell my tale a writer born and bred,
I dared to speak of right and wrong and stood for all that's right,
I spoke of men and guns and wars and warned all those who'd fight".
"Then lines of soldiers past my way and threw me to the floor
They tore my clothes and spat at me and cursed my writing more,
I was chained and maniculed, imprisoned for such views,
By men who yearn to kill and maim, we few who spread such news".
"So there i sat in prison cell, words came to my salvation,
My mind still active full of thoughts on how to save this nation,
Then time passed onwards, shooting stopped outside the silence came,
A key then heard in cell door lock saw freedom once again".
The writer glanced from where he lay one eye cocked to the sun
The warmth engulfed his tired limbs, from beatings he was numb,
"The truth i chant in verse and rhyme for all to choke and eat,
Such words not welcome hereabouts thrown down at general's feet ".
"I stood alone and faced the crowds with words my only gun
Above the cries of blood and hate their hearts i thought i'd won
But little did i guess you see how ignorance can spread,
And that my words were such a threat that they should want me dead".
I helped the writer to his feet his frame so weak and frail
A consequence of standing firm whilst locked away in jail
"One thing" said i "before you leave, pray tell what drives you then?"
Without a second thought he smiled and whispered ".. it's my pen"
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