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At Fascist Hands

Poem in memory of Andreas Baader

At fascist hands
not your own,
in those chill hours
before another dawn
broke your spirit more,
you faced death
grim with knowledge
grown futile
through harrowing years
of lost freedom
that none but mystics,
mad saints
and your martyred comrades
could ever know
what evil forebodings
your murder signifies.
If my heart
now swollen
with terrorist tears
could lay its sorrow
at yours and Ulrike’s
hallowed graves,
truths undefiled
with papal hypocrisy
would hijack even heaven,
holding God hostage
to release your soul.
Let karma wait,
a world
of imprisoned minds
needs anarchy now.

EDDIE WOODS
October 1977

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