this is what happened.
it's late, too late, we should all know better
than to be out here now: we
are all up too late, now, you hear?
for the signs, and the words, and the voices
that build on each other
like towers of anger, and strength.
but we're sitting now, outside the station.
we walked there
and we weren't walking back.
and i, in my smog, in my smoke, with my heart in my throat
began the words of the song.

it's been weeks we've been fighting,
for land and for space, for the right to speak
and be heard: weeks of
lectures on nonviolence, fights about peace,
losing our center and losing ground.
we have built, and rebuilt, and torn down, and rebuilt
relationships in ten thousand ways
to form up this group
that walked a long way with candles
and cocoa and raised voices.

this is what happened.
a mother, her children, their porch light
the lone spot in a block of dark houses;
a lost job, a missed payment,
now they are processing her eviction
and the sheriff will come
in the morning.
late by three days, she says;
late by three days. we've walked here,
and we're not walking back.
and i, with my body, with my blood, with strength like a flood
began the words of the song.

this is what happened:
when they came, we were standing
in a circle in the yard. there were neighbors
and a shared space to speak.
we were listening, and hearing, and
hot drinks were going from hand to hand.
when they came, we were standing
and when they pushed through the circle
standing became walking, became arms
linked in arms. we walked here,
and we're not walking back.
when riot gear met smiling mouths,
when clubs met flushed cheeks and mittened hands,
this is what happened.
and i, in my haze, in my fear, when their meaning was clear,
began the words of the song.

ain't gonna let nobody turn me around.
turn me around.
turn me around.
ain't gonna let nobody turn me around.
i'm gonna keep on walking
keep on talking
marching up to freedom land.