The Knotted Oak

In a humble wooded grove
perched above a peaceful sea
stands a knotted brawny oak
a symbol of atrocity

Before the humble sea side hamlet
before the village square
the seed of growth was wafting
through the cool and misty air

Days blossomed into weeks
maturing into years
the denizens began their flocking
while the oak was looming there

The village finally sprouted
near that wooded grove
the people lived in peace
more arriving by the drove

Society was changing
or so the foolish said
“let us separate the differences
let the foul go unfed”

Nothing could stop
these thriving new ideals
that transformed a village
into a place of blood and steel

“the foul stole my guinea”
“the wretched stole my coin”
“never trust  the vile,
they’ll pillage your daughter’s loins.”

And so the hate continued
until that fateful day
when the magistrate announced,
“I can make this go away.”

And so the village was arranged
through magisterial decree
the hated to the grove
towards that oaken tree

the foul were herded
through that wooden gate
nearing the inevitable
crescendo of man’s hate

families were ripped and scattered
torn at the seams
the squawking of the gulls
made inaudible by the screams

A rope was tossed around a limb
of a proper length and size
something not accounted for:
the pain in the children’s eyes

The children were picked first
by some savage lot
“Save the men and women,
let the parents watch”

Next came the women
the wives of the men
“kill the race through the fruit
may they never breathe again”

The day grew long
the sun hung low
illuminating the bodies
in an eerie auburn glow

When a man stepped forth
noose slid over head
in a proud unwavering voice
this is what he said:

 

“Dozens slaughtered on this branch
a part of your master plan
but can’t you see beneath the skin
fore I am still a man

If I were not a man
then why will I bleed
after you have finished
your heinous, wicked deed

If what you say is true
and if I were still not a man
then why will I be remembered
as the man who made the stand

With this noose around my neck
aware of impending fate
I urge you to evolve,
purge the village hate

When that glorious day comes
and  the tide of hate subsides
never forget the anguish
in the children’s eyes

Let this bloodied tree
this old and knotted oak
symbolize the repercussions
of thrusting hatred’s yoke.”

And so it stands
that knotted, gnarled tree
an everlasting symbol
of that day of infamy