You can dream of peace, but the war will still come to your bed.
If your heart overflows with love for your neighbor,
The war will still slit your throat
In front of your children
And livestream to followers
Who cheer your blood
And mock your children’s tears
And then the war will kill them too.
You can keep only joy in your heart - and you should
But the war will still break your arm
From the torque of twisting
Behind your back,
Shove you to the ground
And you will hear others die in a line,
Bullet by bullet, closer you hear them slump and fall
and then -
And so ends
your one life on Earth
Which you tried to make the best of
Which you tried to do good with
But you’re gone.
And that’s if you’re lucky.
Pray you are lucky.
Pray the war shoots you dead
Or crushes you to death in your own bed
When your building collapses
Under rocket fire
And not that war drags you by your hair
For “interrogations”
where bitter boys whose friends have died
Exact revenge on your softest mortal parts
Deem you worthless
And end you
With the contempt of a farmer shooting a rat
Who got lost in the compost.
War is Hell, yes, if Hell is Other People, Lord Please
Grant it swiftly: let impersonal shrapnel
And concussive force
Come without a human face,
Come without eyes so filled with hate
So determined to hurt.
Those who want war are so few. But those who die could form battalions,
Could form vast legions of the innocent dead,
If these armies could rise and scream for peace,
How they would howl! Their righteous rage
Would silence the shouts of angry guns, the children
With knives for tongues, their hearts replaced with live grenades
What if the bombs could transform into schools?
If bullets could change into food?
Knives become medicine to ease the pain.
But we no longer live in the age of miracles,
If ever we really did.
And that last livestream could have been you.
Someday, it will be.
Someday the war will come for you too.
Gut wrenching! And beautiful. I’ve been so disturbed by the images and worse, by the casual shrugging of so many... we’re so lost. Thanks for sharing.
Poetry is the liminal transmission of the unspeakable, the unknowable, the unthinkable, the unrecognizable.
Madness is hard to frame literally and my words have retreated to poetry too.
We can only hope it gets through.