Peace

 

 

Let the marching swallow, let the battalions breathe,

Let the olive wreath be upon their swords,

Let their mind encompass a peaceful tree

And say;

‘Let’s fight this war and bring harmony’

Man against man, rivers of red,

Neither party be an enemy to thyself,

Which tempered sea makes calm waves?

When is dispute solved by a tempest?

Which Dove said; ‘Let the blood run, for peace to flow?’

Who dies, when and where?

Dost thou know? Or art thou blind?

Which soldier was the scapegoat

For the Captain to call peace?

Where was his home?

Who stayed up watching the stars hoping he‘d be watching them too?

Who journeyed for a mind of peace

To bear his bloodlines demise?

Down the rocky wooden pathway

Down the bridge which sits atop the river,

Down the road hugged by a picket fence,

Down the cobblestones laden with pigeons,

With one white dove amidst the clouds

Its solitary pastel made one, in white.

Its pure coat, a sail in lost winds.

In ironical splendour, the Dove dost stand.

With mirrored poppies upon its feet,

Whilst standing in the golden sand.

He sits

Not looking at the trees, the flowers, the creepers.

Not looking at the water flowing down in crystals,

Not looking at the birds high atop their homes.

But, looking into his thoughts.

Searching for inner peace.

To find the simplicity of mind.

To cure the screams, to soothe the nerves

That thundered in his head.

To accept the fact that his son could die in war,

Fighting for peace.

He sits.

Like a monk in prayer.

His palms turned up to the Lord.

Eyes closed in remembrance,

As if in thought, for the world to stop its function,

Until his boy returns;

From fighting for peace.

Ten years now,

Of brimstone, fire and turmoil.

Ten years, fatherless, surrounded by comrades.

His mother, a picture on the wall,

Laughing, smiling; proud of his military success.

Knowing not the pain of existing;

‘Till he succeeds.

He then stood up, or tried to.

Using three legs as support.

‘Like father like son’, his boy had said.

How he wished his son would remain whole,

To enjoy life in full or not at all.

‘But grieve not’ said the Dove of Peace;

‘No death was in vain’

Come hither, look and see, those little buds of evergreen.

Come see the crimson roses peeping from below,

Come see the green grass, growing stronger than before.

Come see the girl’s line up in queues,

Come see all their laughing faces, before the trucks roll in.

‘Cause, as they all climb out. Pandemonium.

Some whole, some half, some not at all.

‘Death is friends with war, my child.’ The Dove said

‘That is the cost of peace’

Along the rat-infested streets,

Passing the gloomy grey shacks of old,

Through the alleyways of stale beer,

Down where, across the street, the children play havoc;

Lay a sightless mother of four.

Her happy days were photographs,

Of twinkling lights and birthday cakes,

And the roasted turkey for Thanksgiving.

Not anymore were those her happiness,

But the upturned frown on her children’s faces.

And mother’s love to keep her children close.

The drone of the engine. The rap of the door.

The click of the lock.

Hallelujah! The shack lights up.

‘Brother is home’ the children cried.

‘Mother’, her crippled boy now said.

‘I’ve come home’.

Recognition made her fingers twitch, for certainty.

Rising slowly, her fingers searched his face.

Like a sculptor creating a work of art.

And whilst sobbing said ‘My boy has returned.’

Sans wealth, sans luxury, sans materialism.

No moral joy is felt with coin.

Tell me one,

Who has bought age-old happiness.

Tell me one,

Who has bought the peace of mind.

‘Alas,’ the Dove did say ‘Peace, need not millions,

Rather the alliance of all’

‘Fear not’, it now said

‘One needs o know the dark to appreciate the light.

Come hither, look upon the fruits of thy labour.’

Indeed.

For as the growing yield seasoned green to gold,

And the once terrorized children, now, the raging youth.

The resting dove now said

‘Tell me now, ye human folk,

How dost thou wish to lead thy life?

Which heaven made propriety, dost thou now possess?

Never be it, content;

Thus; ungrateful being.

Look this;

War be the immortal giant

And,

Peace be its eternal hunter.’

 

 

♥ The above Poem was awarded Silver Medal in the Senior Category in the Queesn’s Commonwealth Essay Competition organized by the Royal Commonwealth Society.