Poetry
The Forest Watched in Silent Grief
In a forest lush and wide,
Lived gentle rabbits, side by side.
Their days were filled with peace and play,
Until the foxes came their way.
With fur like night and eyes that gleam,
The foxes shattered every dream.
The rabbits ran, they hid, they cried,
While forest friends stood by their side.
The years went by, the rabbits grew,
In strength and number, not a few.
They learned to fight, to brave the night,
And soon reclaimed their homes by right.
But something changed, within their hearts,
Once gentle souls, now played new parts.
They eyed the field mice, small and meek,
And saw not friends, but land to seek.
The rabbits, once the hunted prey,
Now turned the hunters in dismay.
They took the mice's homes, their food, their land,
With nary a pause, or gentle hand.
The forest watched in silent grief,
As rabbits, once loved, turned to thief.
The sympathy once freely given,
Now retracted, harshly driven.
The rabbits, lost in their own fear,
Forgot the past once held so dear.
They failed to see, in their blind quest,
That in their hearts, they failed the test.
The forest, once a place of trust,
Now looked upon the rabbits with disgust.
A tale of sorrow, a cycle unbroken,
Of victims who became the very token.
Of fear and power, of lost compassion,
A warning of a repeated fashion.
Those who suffer can also inflict,
And in their actions, their own fates predict.