Sure of their rightness, and their righteousness, they kill.
To them, the blood’s well spent. Its creeping tide sustains
a purity of energy within their brains,
the undistracted operation of their will.

We are their enemy, the doubters, we who see
survival in the strength of hybrid, motley things;
the rage from which their readiness to murder springs
is fuelled by contempt for our uncertainty.

Reluctant we may be, yet we must take a stand
against their zeal, must find a single voice to say
that various is what we are, how we shall stay,
that certainty in their terms desolates a land.

Confessors of all sorts have stirred the mob before.
Our unity in difference, our faith in thought,
the patient force of reason: only these may thwart
the soldiers of the inquisition at the door.