Revolutions that radically fly, revolutions that are radically crushed

 This is where the road goes toward the beach
At the end is a shaded no exit round end
We walked twenty kilometers to get here
The dim light and shade is a welcome relief

For outside the sun is tyrannical
As it should be
as it was made to be
we see the track toward the beach across

on the other side of the turning circle
We must descend there to witness the beauty of the beach
To somehow know ourselves on the sand
To observe the waves and salt breeze

But we stop in our tracks
For across the damp cul de sac is panflets
Political panflets of revolution
Some turn over loftily in the soft breeze

Others are stuck to the tarmac
half ripped, damp and the print slightly running
So which is it I thought to myself
Is it the one stuck to the tarmac getting run over

or is it the one the wind by good fortune has elevated
saved and let fall into the hands of it's next potential member