Fifty Years to Peace
The drums have beat for fifty years, rhythmic, a hollow sound,
Where ancient hate took root and grew in a blood-soaked, bitter ground.
Two giants locked in an iron grip, dare to never bend,
Ignorant that the road they walked had reached a resounding end.
The Valley of The Beginning, where the first of life was lit,
Now crumbles under explosions, as smoke and shadow knit.
A war that had no winner’s crown, or glory in the fray,
Just embers of a dying place that simply burns away.
But in the quiet under darkness, beneath the mountain’s crest,
Were those who chose to guard a spark and put the sword to rest.
They built their shelters deep within, against the coming night,
To keep their children warm and safe until the morning’s light.
The warriors are mere ghosts today, their banners lost to time,
But in the silence left behind, a different spark for life’s design.
A surreal dawn, a grayish haze, where once the missiles roared,
Where fields will turn by steady hands that were long ago ignored.
The call to march, the call to die for lines upon a map,
And found instead a way to bridge the lonely vacant gap.
It will be the life of liberty, a sweet scent in the mountain air,
A freedom forgotten by the old, an emerald bright and rare.
No kings shall claim this hallowed soil, no tyrants will hold the key,
For power rests within the hands of those who chose to flee
The madness of the fifty years, foul hunger for the kill,
To bow instead to justice and the people’s common will.
It is a government of skin and bone, of heart and quiet grace,
Reflected in the light that shines on every weary face.
The change they whispered in the dark is now their morning sun;
The peace that rose from ashes when the losing war was done.
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