Call Me A Dreamer

Shower My Foe with Blessings

Original photo: Majid Asgaripour (West Asia News Agency) — Photoshopped by The Ragged Psalmist

Finally, there is no moral tide that rises on either side.
Blood is blood and what is blood in war,
but an end to all means to an end.

Shed enough of it, and the object of that titular cause,
however just, will vanish, leaving only an escalation to extremes.

After this, only the lie remains. Are we forever murderers?
Shall I shoot down my enemy, call it victory?

I want my enemy to see the green, after this grey rain.
See the stillness of the leaves in these woods,
feel its enchantment.

I want them to be anointed by the sun,
have crops that spill from bins,
see their children play under the blue spruce,
where this yellow warbler sings.

I want these blessings to shower my enemy
until by sheer weight, the shells jailing our souls are shattered,
and my enemy might be my friend.

There is no politics, no decree, no treaty, that heals.
There is no science, no technique, no bullet, that kills hate.

Only missiles of mercy, armoury of empathy.
Only a gound invasion of compassion.
Only the occupation of love.

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