You may choose peace,
But we cannot,
Feeling thyself release
From your greater lot,
Who have always thus destroyed
Where’er they’ve employed
Their sapience fraught,
As a poison poisonous be,
Thus is humanity,
Though arcs of the blade
Might be bluntly made,
The most of it’s sharp,
As a single string not tuned
Unmakes not the harp
And is by others impugned,
For one unhooked fish
The angler starveth none,
Nor changes his wish
To never hook one;
Thus, to the one snake,
A multitude of fang,
So the number you take
Is lesser than you hang,
Adding ever, no matter slight,
Or endeavor, a bit more plight;
Now loathing man’s haste,
His war and his waste,
Disbanding from the lot,
Yearning thus for release,
You may choose peace,
But we cannot.