This morning is of heavy fog and monsoon rains. The mountains are disturbed by angry rivers, And I by stories of mass arrests and massacres. There is a loosening of rock and earth. In times Such as this one must consolidate his social being In ways designed by revolutionary wisdom. I think thoughts of people's war, Not of reactionary peace but of affliction, Within the barbed and sentried confines of the regime. Now I think of a mother and child unborn, And recall that once she said Come and feel me. I sensed the little one quicken inside her, Kick the palm of my hand once, twice, and Lodge his threatened presence in the core of me. I felt too the touch of her warmth on my cheek And saw the central glow of her face fringed With the pained penumbra of a sadness and a concern. I think of her distant smile and grasp the Word That the wailing of many Rachels must end, And from the hearts of mothers swords be drawn out. The fog then opens up to a fighting terrain.                               Slippery is the soft brown carpet of pine needles. The rain turns gentle. I think thoughts of people, Of their war, and of peace of their own creating. I think of you, Child, like a bullet Quiet and alert in the chamber of a guerrilla's gun; Of you Comrade Woman, bearing a gift of hope. You release me more deeply into the long struggle.