TWO...ONE...FORTY

Two wars- forty years reminded
One nation- still blinded
Two men- forty years aloof
Words- forty years removed…

This world thrashing in sleep
recoils of such flattering speech
in the hell of man’s making.
A nameless, penniless peace
stands weeping at the purblind raking
of histories misguided providence.

Howling as the dying howl,
alone and hopeless in the faint gorge,
unmoved by the useless patter of war,
nodding in disbelief,
she begins her throbbing journey
unnoticed, lunging into the throes
of such frequent pursuit.

She thinks she glimpses light ahead
bending on the way to her throat
and lets slip hope in harmony’s sky…


© 2008 mrp/tpm