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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required ( after Sachida's after the war) There will be war, in fact, there have always been wars, and will continue. Wars satisfy us. Our nasty muscles move in festive workouts, when there is war; in hearts, minds and on tongues. We suffer from cerebral indigestion, when deprived of wars. The other day, the day after his son's birthday celebrations, with exploding music and drunken noise, which lasted till wee hours of the night, my neighbor, somehow, managed to transfer his frustrations upon me by littering my backyard lawn with empty beer cans; probably thrown over the barbed wire fence, by reveling guests of his punk-offspring. My dog, Snow, barked at the strange garbage with unsual agitation. It sensed an arrogant invasion on its fond green grass. I too was gravely provoked and felt the need to wage a war. Thus, I skipped breakfast and waited for his emergence, pacing on my courtyard in furious strides while my eyes remained glued to his front door, all throughout that sunny winter morning. What followed next, I choose not to reproduce. It was a war, of words, we prefer not to engage in front of the children. Ants crossed borders, everyday, in their tiny lifetimes. But wage no war with termites, earthworms and roots. They simply tolerate each other's organic aspirations. Why do we have this genetic longings of counting corpses, fallen chariots and diffused bombs. Even as the good books cry for love and peace, while their revered middlemen conspire with rulers and falsify faiths, we are eternally charged for wars, until nothingness will prevail in memories of ruins and ashes, where poetry will lament with silent screams.
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