Bricks
Blessed is the Apple in flight
Blessed is the rock that calls down machine gun fire
Blessed is the raised fist, the bullhorn
The stencil and the paint
Blessed, oh blessed, is the man ablaze
What possible love could be greater
Than the love for the throwers of bricks?
The ones who shatter glass and empires
Those who tilt at windmills and death?
So blessed, blessed are the bricks
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