The Consequences

If you would, in manner true,
dance upon the glade.
With laughter ringing out so pure,
defying the silver blade.

But soon the joy shall turn to fear
and the laughter shall still,
as Men rich with beer
come for red blood to spill.

The glade is green no more,
but crimson from the flow.
will you lock and bar the door
and bid the knockers go?

Shall you fling it open wide
and take out all your arms,
to shoot a drunken hide
beneath the broken palms?

Will the dead be mourned
or shall they lie there bare,
food for the scavengers
beast and bird, black of hair?

What are you, strong or weak,
or are you neither and merely meek?
shall you guard what is yours
or let it be taken by thieving paws?

No matter what, we have to live
with the decision, the choice,
of what gifts to give;
to be silent or raise our voice.

So protest for the crimson glade
the laughter that is still,
stop the slaughter with the blade,
before it could find a life to kill.

By Yours Truely. Makes you think, doesn't it?