tiananmen song - a poem

at this date, I only see pictures,
smoke billowing like world war two,
I think, 'how many souls billow with it'
of boys, girls, women, the men who wage
through them, as if anything is gained,
peering through the smoke, I search
for anything pure, a man on a white horse,
a lady in medieval garb, honoring the contest
with a handkerchief,
a prophet returning,
--
where is the song of tiananmen,
one lonely struggler standing before a tank,
to ignite our passions in gritty realistic photos,
he's pointing a gun at rosebuds,
picking them off before they can bloom,
he's the new sharp shooter sans machine,
perhaps he, that lone struggler before his tank
was the prophet returning