To write, or not to do so,
in ink, pixels, or pencil;
to express my views or not,
and risk being deplatformed?
I am aware of the climate
of intolerance, sprung up
from the same inflexible voices,
in the hallways of Universities.
The seasons are changing
and the times are rearranging;
the values of the past have become,
like branches that must be pruned.
Yet, each time they grow anew,
they are trimmed back even further;
until, perhaps, nothing will be left,
except the barren trunk of a tree.
And, when that is reduced to nothing
except for a stump, planted firmly in the ground,
the seedlings will quietly sprout up elsewhere,
remaining hidden, until the light reappears.