Nations line up, bristling.

Everyday symbols imbued with treachery.

A new spring heralds years of destruction.

A sunflower field receives fallen angels.

Nine dashes mark isles of discord.

Lessons learned at great cost

forgotten or disregarded.

Oh, reckless race.

There is no wisdom in these times.

 

Young men in black

detonate themselves

in markets airports subways.

Young men in uniform

aim rockets bombs drones.

Hellfire. Predator.

From Gaza to the Hindu Kush,

from Dhaka to Dallas,

there is no love in these times.

 

We live in fear

and turn against our brothers.

Our lives diminished

as we point out the others.

Our priests are on trial,

and we are led by fools.

There is no path for these times.

 

Too many homes

imploded into rubble.

Too many children

washed up on the shore.

Too many on the roads

with fevered dreams,

garrotted by the past.

Too many futures foregone.

 

So let us read old books

of fantasy, love and caring,

of gardens moist with dew.

Let us rise against the black tide

of hatred and despair.

Let us build, create and heal.

That is the wisdom for these times.

 

Let us look into our hearts

and remove those scabs of fear.

Ungird your angry armour

lest you turn into what you fight.

There is more to unite us,

on our fragile blue planet,

than to place us apart.

That is the love for these times.

 

Let us link hands

with our brothers and sisters.

Show them our love,

listen to their pain,

share our bread.

For violence feeds off itself

until it is quenched by love.

That is the path for these times.

 

Start right now.

 

 

© Gilbert F. J. Van Hoeydonck

20 July 2016