I'm putting you on notice.

You, up there pulling the strings,

Whipping up shadows

for your danse macabre.

You think we don't see your antics,

we're trussed like chickens to market,

blind clawed, basket cases,

ripping and pecking to your tune.

You think our throats are already slit.

And you can drain away our voices.

And sell us to the highest bidders

to feather your executive jets.

You think we'll go quietly, alone

in our colour-coded cages

in our separate sacks of god-given

skin. Hateful of our neighbours.

You think we're just like you.

(In fact you're betting on it: a prod here,

a poke there, gets us hot and bothered,

pecking and ripping in concert,

and you laughing all the way to market.)

In case you haven't noticed,

we've stitched our throats together.

It's not pretty,

but it's a start.

We're tending our wounds, our wounded,

Staunching your haemorrhage

of our spirit, our neighbourliness,

our trust. You don't get it, do you?

You think you're still the wayang masters,

Overseeing us with your big shields,

big sticks. You still have power to disappear

us. Crack our backs, our pockets, our hearts.

But we aren't just puppets seeking better

masters. We're not just jumping to the beat

of alternate messiahs. We aren't game-play fodder

to be whirled as needed, then swept aside.

Pull all your strings, but we're the dancers.

We're bone and sinew, tears and sweat,

dancing the dance of our own history

in the making, singing from our own slit throats.

And we're singing: We don't need protection

from each other, thank you

We're singing: We refuse.

We're singing: We accuse.

We're singing: We hear your promises.

We're singing: We're watching you.

And we don't need your protection,

thank you, except from you.