The First War
by Martha Cinader
copyright 2002

We tread today the sacred ground of the
ancestors of this land,
asking not
what have we done,
hearing not the bell toll
but the endless grinding of
a machine.

Until now.
And now it rings
beyond control
its message
beyond meaning,
its mold
beyond repair.

Those who know the story
intimately
will try
to write the end;
preaching fire and
destruction,
blaming the voiceless,
exhorting our basest instincts
to rise.

But we walk among astral figures
entreating us
to listen to the piercing
tones of love
shattering the void

to share our dinner
with a hungry child
to plant and nurture
a fruit bearing tree
to have the patience of
the ages

to see before us
not a vision
of vengeful hellfire but
the bright rays of
hope
that shine
both night and day.

Friday, September 14, 2001