When Peace Grows Impatient
Peace. A sword left covered with its sharpness in a sheath.
The serene wind blows through the mind of a child—
calm, tranquil, forgiving.
Yet quakes swallow its tremors,
and earth refuses to regurgitate its bitterness.
Even when voices are raised,
they end drowned in reason.
Surely, fire must burn with smoke even when quenched by waters,
eyes blazing crimson to show truth’s flared tempers.
But the soil would rather drink raindrops
than the scarlet ink of lost victims.
Yet weapons must ensure the superiority of powers,
and strengthen the tap roots of mighty oaks.
Not even doves that forsook their white
as emblem of no bloodshed
escape the slaughter instinct of men.
So, roundtables may need reshaping to square,
for afflictions to stop going round.
I dreamed of silence without smothered bones…
When ammunition expires in the armory of great armies,
when soldiers’ boots gather cobwebs,
their noses filled with mildewed breath exhaled in glum trenches,
when stale gunpowder fills the barrels of jammed weapons begging reuse.
But guns boom, and their sound blooms.
Silence is louder than the voices against them.
Powers must be flexed.
Peace is filled with the virtue of waiting—
only that patience is already impatient of waiting.
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