No passive meal, no rare stuff bird,
true peace is not a noun, but verb;
inaction, apathy and doubt
that whisper are not her. She shouts
from rooftops, making foul war shake
in fear at her approach. Mistake
not mewling whiners for her knights,
but rather find those awake nights
who seek to change first, in themselves,
the hurt and violence that dwells
inside us all, and is expressed
in hatred’s cruel unhappiness.
Peace is no victim, she just waits
while we excuse or blame on fate
why we act not who know the course
that will alone deter blind force:
to cease rewarding strength and might
for its own sake, calling it right
that those who kill and those who die
are somehow not just you and I.
11 AUG 2006
