They come to us from elsewhere,
false and true,
some standing in the park on boxes, shouting,
some on buses, rising
to declare whatever moves them
to their calls for justice, retribution, mercy,
common sense. They bear
a message from the fourth dimension
of their clearest vision,
speaking to an age indifferent to reason.
It is hard to understand their grief,
their anger, and their joy.
A few disciples carry on behind them,
handing out the leaflets,
playing tapes, believing in belief.
Sad, how few words
are true enough to matter,
make us willing to attend a meeting,
answer calls, or rise above the crowd.