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Art under the stranglehold of fanatics

by Mark Hill

Rulers of darkness, worshippers of death
Hatred in their heads
In one hand a rosary, and corrosion in the other
Drunk from the blood of flowers
Wanting to kill beauty
Ordering artists to be crucified

Mind engineers
Building a prison with invisible walls
As big as a nation
Drawing its prisoner souls down the road of death

Directors of rottenness
Requiring their actors to exalt fanaticism
Only death and barbarity may be glorified

Music is forbidden
It can keep love alive
They would allow music only
In the house of oblivion

Art never dies
The spirit of art passes through the happiness of a smile
The bitterness of a cry
The excitement and pain of growing up
The thrill of hugging, the shine of stars
The light of the sun
The splendour of mountains
The heat of deserts
The sound of waves
The greenness of jungles
The footprints of gazelles
The breath of flowers
And all over the universe
Even through the walls of prison

And wherever this spirit arrives it will be formed by
The imagination of writers
The notes of musicians
The hands of sculptors
The inspiration of actors
The voices of singers
And the souls of artists