Beat. Beat. Beat.
They bang their drums.
They fly their flags.
They plant their cross.
And all the while,
Amongst them we walk.
Some of us are afraid.
Some of us are angry.
All of us are threatened.
We are not them and thus targets.
We resist in different ways.
But we are all screaming from the battlements.
Even if we can only whisper.
And should our voices all die,
Remember this:
They will not live forever.
They have children.
Some of these will pick up stones.
They will hear our cries within these.
And they will start throwing.
Leave a Reply