I have a dream.
Above me, footsteps -
Below me, only dirt.
The cup trembles in my hand,
But broken bread calms my heart
And my feet stay firm.
The words pass along -
Nothing has changed.

I look around.
Resolve surrounds me,
And my cup overflows -
Though I can hear the voices,
The striking of the ground.

The doorway falls in on itself.
Red, angry eyes glare at me,
Drawing weapons with an empty threat.

I fall into a heap on the floor.

This is my dream.

You ask, "Why?"

I do not wish to weep bitterly --
I would rather smile.

"He is no fool who gives up what he cannot keep to gain what he cannot lose."

Jim Eliot, missionary, speared by headhunters in Ecuador, 1956