There sits a bridge higher than high,
built as a wall taller than tall.
Under the bridge, a truth and a lie;
those seeking truth die in the fall.
All see the wall when on a side,
screaming across, crying in vain.
All see the bridge when one allies,
dissolving the gloss, crossing the grain.
Follow the flock smashing the wall —
never you mind the bridge that is gone.
Pick up a rock thrown from the brawl;
never a pawn, leading it on.
Where is the bridge joining them all?
Proles understand: building new walls,
man on his hands learning to crawl,
remaining small, clawing for all.