It was in sixty-eight in France they wrote,
“Beneath the cobblestones, the beach.”
Across that time, another clime, it comes to us
To teach the mystery of history, its reach
From yesteryears to what appears today, on streets
Where the hardy flower, freedom, breaks through stone.
We are not lone in this, longing over vast expanse of time,
Wondering where the bright minstrel of delight had gone–
It was not long ago we Occupied the space that we were told
Was ours, our place to call our own and home–
But then suppressed, the Commons stressed and torn, police
And government revealed as Not Ours, but loyal only to the voice of gold.
Autonomous, we breathe the scent of liberation in a space,
Know this is only one small place from which the sea can spread
Across the beach beneath the monolith of gray, the spray and sound
Of tides carried in our thousand-leggéd swell…
This time it will be different, we will not lose to history
The smell of the ocean, the scent of the sea, we will flow on
Until freedom embraces every continent and place.