The Riddle

To be, or not to be, That was Shakespeare’s question A riddle, or were we handed the Baton The pen is mightier than the sword Yet we rarely take this on board In War it’s the guns who decide the question For to be, is to make War And not to be, are the victims of War There are no sides in death, No victories, no defeats, Only faceless victims, wars receipts And if we are all, not to be Would god survive in his silent abbey? And who will remember we That is the real question. A century approaches for World War 1 No survivors left For all the Tommie’s are dead And war still rears its dreadful head And it is we, who are left to ponder, To swear upon Gods Alter “To be, in peace, for the earth is our mother Not to be, at war, with our sisters and brothers. And the bard can sleep a poets dream Of sunsets and moonbeams Of rivers and oceans and far off lands For dreams confirm our conscience And peace confirms our existence.