Peace is Here
The wasteland of my soul
Is littered with bodies dead and dying
The wounded hoist a tattered pole
On which the flag of freedom flying
Dares to claim a victory won
Among the spoils of battles lost
The rising of a better sun
Though shadows linger in the frost
The dawn is nigh and long awaited
The injured soldiers hold their ground
Their wailing stopped with breath that’s baited
Amid the gloom, the hopeful sound
Of marching feet from distant parts
And cheering voices growing near
A salve for tired and broken hearts
The war is over; peace is here.
Replies
:-)
When one has just interbeen
what’s there to talk about at tea?
Maybe chat of what we’ve seen…
all one can say is, ‘I saw me,’
It’s really such a bother
when everywhere one turns
nothing’s really other
whatever one discerns
Narcissus did not need to die,
he did not even need a pond;
Poor Echo didn’t need to cry
or even grow so very fond
for if we’re always interbeing
there’s nothing new and nothing lacking
since the only thing we’re seeing
is ourselves in other packing.
Wonderful reply. I'm tempted to call it interbeing!
Thanks, Dennia. Nice. Here's a reply...
The war is never over, dear,
the soldiers just return to base
to drink and boast and clap and cheer
the hero and the flying ace
while all the while the sky grows dim
to pressage the next round or two;
the cup was full up to the brim
it now o’er spills on me and you
as we are caught up in the mill
of love and hate and happiness
yet quite unable to be still
while all the world seeks fair redress
for histories we can’t allow
that niggle hidden in the dark
so that no matter when or how
the bell may toll, we have to hark.