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In a world where every tool
can be turned into a weapon
Good in itself
ceases to exist
In a world where none may rise
except if one falls
Where the only nourishing rain
the planters of seeds know
Are those many tears wrung
from other hearts in sorrow
Goodness in itself
ceases to exist
There is a life whose owners found a way
to graft a curse onto every blessing
For they demanded from the maker of worlds
a life where one need not sow before reaping
They sought ways to possess the likeness
of that which consumes
that which gives it life
They prayed that they be turned
into a disease
Weep for the future
You who take pride now
in the eloquence of your
correctly civilised soul
The parents of baby predators
are preparing the hunting grounds
For their progeny
For when the only ones
who study history are tyrants
Then its lesson serves as nothing more
than a manual on how to refine oppression
If your youth are not taught today
to question past ages of mass enslavement
They will gaze upon new manacles
with little curiosity
Reticence in speaking of the damages
once inflicted by such
Means the ones growing into them
will not recognise the purpose
Of chains being newly forged
around their limbs
Until too late
And the costs of freedom once again
bankrupts another generation
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