In the fields of hate
I counted severed skulls, charred bodies
mementos strewn about…
I smelled blood
way too fresh, too red
I took two steps back.
Only to catch a wider view
Nay, too vivid…
a field enveloped by dark despair
the sky’s too unforgiving to think —
salvation is at all possible.
Everywhere I looked
bespoke of trespass and horror —
everything is base, vile and low.
Why didn’t I think of it before
that anger could be sown
planted and grown?
That distance, discord and drift —
could be harvested, collected
placed in a neat vessel?
To be given back as revenge –
violence dressed as militance.
Humans are born alone
trapped in bodies too weak or too severe.
Raised by lingering doubts —
worked up, waned and warped by experiences
fueled by creeping sorrows.
Disappointments – too many for mention
dreams are woven and shattered
on a daily basis.
When does pain begin to petrify?
How is longing transformed —
into an image of the cold?
The path from gladness to madness
to tread that track –
rather too easily, a child’s play…
Want suppressed become pure hatred
to a man burdened – with murder at heart.
Everyone is suspect
everything is disposable
appetite for destruction revved up
with each step, with each conquest…
Lunacy is oft methodical
careful and systematic
wrath must spare no one —
to cut, to break, to slit into pieces.
What is it like to be in a battle?
Is it true – all those deafening sounds
the explosions, the confusion, the rush?
Do men gather to defend the borders
do women bewail and bemoan
the death of children and infants
are fences really driven over
do animals scamper about?
So it happens, sadly so –
the burning, the shooting
the public display of the defiant
rape, pillage and plunder…
We’ve been taught
these are things of the past
we are civilized now – sophisticated
blood and gore belong to the barbarians.
But I looked around
and saw for myself
this vast incomprehensible creation
an artwork beyond compare —
ghastly, avant-garde, extraordinaire…
a cacophany of lives left behind in a hurry
a shocking display of things lying around —
to be erased, forgotten, never to be remembered.
In the fields of hate, I wandered
and learned about fear and its companions.
Take my hand
there’s a chance, albeit slim
the way to peace is possible…
* This poem was written a year ago, a few days after Christmas after a very unfortunate incident. It is being published here as a sympathy post to the Connecticut shooting – condolence to the bereaved parents, siblings and to humanity – for the incalculable loss and sufferings…
** The piece is copyrighted. If sharing or republishing, please link it back here and give credit to the author. For permission to reproduce, please write to email@example.com. Thanks. 🙂
*** The next post will be about gratitude. It will be a short one, promise…
Wishing everybody a peaceful Christmas on the day said to be the end of the world – as we know it…. 😉