Somewhere a bird cries.
Perhaps it is a lonely crow.
Though, in truth, a cawing crow most often brings more crows.
To scare away a screeching hawk,
Or share to feast on bits of broken life
Scattered willy-nilly on the rocks of a crumpled building.
Stone quarried and hauled and put in place and now in ruin.
Now in ruin.
Somewhere a baby cries.
Trapped beneath the rubble.
The baby does not know; cannot know
What happened to mommy and her warm milk.
The She of all that warmth and smile and love
Inexplicably gone forever.
Gone forever.
Somewhere an old man dies,
Perhaps of sepsis from the jutting bone
No-one left to help him hobble to nowhere
For nowhere is exactly where the care he needs persists
Just as likely, he dies of a broken heart; he had hoped
Hoped for a better life for his children and his grandchildren
But he sees that is not to be.
Not to be.
Somewhere a young woman sighs,
The gray day’s rain runs in rivers through the ruins
Of her village and her dreams in streams and she sees
In the screen behind her eyes the soldiers laughing as they
Ravage her too young body her too raw love that now
Will never come again no more dreams
Only nightmares.
Only nightmares.
Somewhere a so-called ‘Strong man’ does not cry;
Does not sigh. His fingers sport a manicure.
He merely issues orders; plans another massacure.
He spouts his lies and promises and promises and lies
He terrifies the people and the people will believe
He enrages the people and the people scream their hate
He has them rushing headlong into yet another turn
Of the Wheel of War and the people attack the people
And the game of checks and slays continues on and on and on and on.
On and on and on and on.
It is indeed a wondrous game, the Wheel of War.
It crushes old and young.
It crushes hopes and dreams.
It blackens every sky and even flowers die.
It fouls the crystal water and the air that people breathe.
It is indeed a wondrous game, the Wheel of War.
The Wheel of War.
For everyone loses and no-one wins.
Except for the manicured man with plastered hair.
Except for the man with the painted face.
Who crushed the dreams and spun the Wheel of War.
His victory is gray and shallow and he knows he’s lost
He’s harmed the very Tree of Life
Because he could not win the game of Love
Because he could not win the game of Life
He chose instead to spin the Wheel of War
That spills and kills; undermines; explodes; crushes.
He destroys in minutes what took centuries to build.
What took centuries to build.
Long after the ‘strong man’ is dead:
Beneath the orchard burned to char,
In broken buildings near and far,
The Tree of Life sends shoots of spring.
And birds again will take to wing.
And hope and love will rule the day.
And no-one, no-one wants to play
The dumbest game—the warring way.
The parasites who prey on fear
Who ruin the rainbow with a jeer
Inside their weakness gnaws and grows.
They cannot see the glow of rose.
They cannot feel love’s warm embrace.
They truly fear and hate it all.
They’re too afraid to play fair ball.
The only game for them is hate.
They long ago locked every gate.
They want to kindle fear in you.
And train you up to hate the few.
Somewhere a joyous chorus sings.
All the bombs and guns are ground to dust.
All the people finally feel the shame.
All the people finally see the sham.
All the people finally know
What is weak and what is truly strong.
And the giant Wheel of War
Falls to shards, never to be spun again.
Never to be spun again.
Never to be spun again.
petersironwood 