Silence of the Righteous

Silence of the Righteous

They were not beasts with blood upon their hands
but teachers, shopkeepers, and fathers’ sons
who watched the cattle cars roll down the tracks
yet stirred no limb to halt the steel of death.

Some feared the knock that echoed in the dark
some learned to swallow lies as daily bread
some let the swelling fever of the crowd
replace the quiet whisper of the soul.
A race of racists, yes—but worse than that
a nation lulled by myths of chosen blood
who measured worth by twisted lines of code
etched deep in skull and skin, decreed by hate.

We boast we would have braved that poisoned time
we say we’d rise against the tyrant’s shout
we claim we’d tear the banners from the square
but history teaches harsh truths to us.
Most hearts beat dull beneath the weight of fear
most eyes grow blind when terror stalks the street
and silence blooms, as easy as a sigh.

Yet now the tanks roll once again in view
the drones ignite the night in Gaza’s sky
and children wake to fire as dawn appears.
The homes are crushed, the water choked with ash
the olive groves cut down by steel and flame
and always words to dress the naked crime
Security, defence, the right to kill.

The Western tongues that swore “Lest We Forget”
have found new hymns to praise the same old war.
And Germany, still captive to its past
gives bombs instead of voice to those who die.
The empire’s heirs—the UK, USA—
ship weapons, ink new treaties in the blood
and watch the numbers climb, then call for calm.

Damn them for every child turned into dust
for every prayer drowned out by screaming steel
for every silence deeper than a grave.
Damn us, who watch through glass and screens of blue
who pity, yet never act or speak out
who know—and knowing, turn away again.

And damn the preachers, clothed in holy fraud
whose trembling lips proclaim a chosen land
these evangelists, whose gospel feeds on blood
who see in slaughter God’s mysterious plan.
If chosen, then let them show the face of Cain
the mark of murder branded on the brow
and prove at last what evil truly is—
that faith, when yoked to evil breeds new hells.

If we would honour victims long since burned
then let the living victims find our rage.
If we would mourn the crimes of those before
then let us halt the crimes that bloom today.
For silence, clothed in sorrow or in fear
remains the coward’s shrine to hate and power.
Let Gaza’s blood stain every hand that feeds
this genocide—a word too late, yet true.
Let not our children curse our quiet hearts
nor write our names beside the ones we damned.