They asked for little, hearth and land,
Their books, their work, their children’s care.
Yet tyrants could not understand,
If they knew they wouldn’t dare.
They bore the theft, the sneer, the slight,
And quenched the soil with quiet hand.
But once compelled at last to fight,
Their fury scorched across the land.
They mourned the selves they could not keep,
The kindly men now forced to hate.
Their former peace lies buried deep,
From malice, greed, and evil state.
And in their homes, the loved ones stare,
Afraid of what their eyes behold,
The gentle face, now wrath laid bare,
A stranger forged from battles old.
Yet still they know, it must be done,
The fury serves a shield, a wall.
For wife, for child, for every son,
The justful hand must guard them all.
A fire more old than kings awoke,
A flame where pity could not stay.
And in that wrath, illusions broke,
The darkest veil gave birth to day.
Yet when the storm had spent its store,
They turned again where roots belong,
To build, to re-build, and restore,
Through stone, through seed, through toil and song.
When duty calls us all once more,
We shall not leave our fate to chance.
No velvet heart as kept before,
No bowed and pleading stance.
For something gentle there was slain,
Upon the day they learned to see
That those who feast on others’ pain
Would never let the harmless be.
They carry now a colder flame,
Tempered hard in grief and scar.
And they remember well the names
Of those who made them what they are.
Tyrants may pray for softer men,
For they slew the grace and tore apart,
The kindly souls of gentlemen.
Now they face the wrath of once gentle hearts.
