Her naked breasts our shield we march the street
emptied of police full of her angry scream
rage so intense it wakes us into dream.
The rhythm of our chant has skipped a beat
halted our stride. Her wrath is the despair
of true love money broke, the fierce frontiers
tear love an open wound across the years.
To her gold, nations – trivial as air.
She’s older far, more dangerous. She fights
beside us. Never dream she’s on our side
nor cross her – those who do have always died
of love. If lucky, after dream-sweat nights.
But for this moment, on our barricade,
for her own reasons, love comes to our aid.