A Poem by Stacey Zisook Robinson War is not holy. It is made of blood and fed by fear, Ravenous and insatiable, It devours the world In pieces. It touches Everything, Ten thousand miles Or five hundred feet Or ten inches away. It sends out delicate, grasping, choking tendrils to curl and coil over the rubble of bombed-out buildings, and the razor sharp ruin of hearts and Lives. Blood is blood. It seeps red and turns brown and black as it dries in the dirt. Yours. Mine. Theirs. Blood is blood. And the thing about war-- The madness of its twisted, tainted suffocating existence, Is that it changes everything it touches, And it touches everything, So that a lover of peace, who listens for God in the stillness, and finds God in small moments of holy devotion, And carries the music of God Out into the world-- In war, A lover of peace, in a moment of quiet Stillness, Where once there was God to fill that holy space of grace and glory, And now there is only Silence, a lover of peace Will learn to say: Blood is blood, But better their blood than Ours. And I am a lover of Peace. As if that matters. War touches everything, And changes everything, And kills, And shatters, And destroys What it touches. And war is not holy And war makes blood flow. And blood is blood. That matters -- Blood is blood, And I am a lover of Peace.
Posted on: Thu, 10 Jul 2014 01:00:00 +0000
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