Tongue-polished boots stand firm
on broken, shattered crystalled-glass.

With heavy arms,
and with lifted mask,
The Marshal of Bigotry cries his command,
“Persecutors! To the task!”

In maliced march,
and in chilling rhythm,
They goose-step,
arched,
o’er blood split from civil schism.

A camp for him,
A camp for her.
And to them sent,
without law conferred.

With gun to temple,
We are offered a choice,
“Fall fast in line,
and in hate rejoice.”
“Or bear stitched lips,
and suffer silenced voice.”

If truth is stone,
then sharpen your sword.
Put helm to crown,
And place faith
in just accord.