In ancient Persian tradition,Or so does a legend narrate.That each time a rose was plucked,A nightingale cried in objection,To man’s tendency to desecrate,Even what ought not be racked.Man, for ages has destroyedBeauty wherever he finds it.For it is what he hates most in others.That another should lack a void.That he alone should be a misfit.And so what he lacks, man smothers.Why, gentle men and women,Must man take such refinement,And crush it down for his pleasure?Why such obsessions and yenTo inflict pain on the innocentTo such inordinate a measure?Pray tell, gentlefolk, if you may.Why the nightingale doesn’t cry,When a rose is cropped way too soon.Why we often look the other way.Why we prefer to turn a blind eyeTo such cruelty and misfortune.That till when such tragedies,Come knocking at our doors,We defend degenerates and perverts.And excuse brutish brutalities,That any sane person abhorsAs though we have no hearts.©Quinns