A goodwill rutted

by the tread of time, 

losing its grace

at a menacing pace, 

as hate hibernates, 

waiting its turn 

to wreak the havoc

it has dreamed

on unsuspecting peace, 

wreck its wreath

of olive branch, 

sussurate discord

into ears, and 

lace it into hearts, 

till no fellow-feeling

is enough to merge

the hymn sheets, 

or stand as staysail

ready to face

the winds of chance

that can tear

humanity's kinship

and brotherhood apart.