Sunday, April 18, 2004

Now darkly through the looking glass, Sunday contemplations

We see but a little ahead, and that but darkly, as if through a looking glass. Brave our soldiers, young men and women, we send into foreign fields with flags waving and parades brashly behaiving and hope to see their faces again but not at Dover. Star spangled banner for tis of thee, sweet land of liberty we speak of from sea to shining sea that for pride and honor's sake young lives go marching hence from the land where our father's died, what bitter price paid in scarlett spilled on foreign sands for liberty?

Now is the hour, and where has the pride of our hearts gone when the aftertaste of victory becomes sour? Where are those to fight for their own nation, that strangers must die for them when they raise no voice or rifle for freedom? Purple mountains majesty, where our generations ought to live and amidst amber waves of grain where they ought to raise families where are the blooms of our youth? Snakes are in Eden, between the Tigris and Euphrates, and their milk is all that too many of our kids will sate their thirst upon in desert lands.

Blowing sand and harsh yellow grit like powdered misery, boots drum in military marches day in and day out but where are the lights in white housed windows late at night? Frustration becomes anger, and anger becomes hate, and screaming and shooting and people laying face down in pools of their own insides. Still we cannot keep the lights on far away for all our vigils at home.

Ringed around mosques, our soldiers crouch ready to rush in where angels take their sandals off to tread. They go sent by leaders blinded and deafened by the words they speak, so soft so soft one would hardly know each one condemns to death a man. The soccer field becomes the graveyard and the laments of grief turn tears from gratitude into the hissing sand storms of vengeance. For the sake of pride and four insults, we grind the wages of vendetta into the bread of despair and the wine of violence.

So quick, so quick, there goes another life fleeting it flies borne heavenward not to touch earth again until Dover. So slow, so slow, everyday ticked off by a scheming clock measured in not seconds but statacco gunshots punctuated by warmth leaving brown eyes. So hopeful, so hopeful chirps those sitting behind desks oceans away with soft hands and never sweating and never chilled as they talk about how things are turning around.

Turning round and round, the lonely falcon of the the wastelands cries and wider and wider it flies until it comes to rest to eat a dead man's sight. Salivating dogs and men lower than dogs stalk the night, amid mortar roars and rocket scores and scores in punchy beats no music man can make a catchier tune to defeat. Red lines trickle in liquid borders, and they so neatly embroider colorful stories at home each bought with a dozen stones and men to go with each fanciful tale.

So we see darkly though a looking glass, but dimly, and all too aware of the cost but not enough of the cost and divided against ourselves but this our uniter and sleeping through the breaking of the bottle that holds the genie but oh they're muslim and they don't believe in genies anymore or will they make one last exception to grant us three curses except that it was supposed to be wishes and oh how I wish that our boys could go home to warm kisses except that now so many to Dover will go and go and find their home six feet below and instead of cute pictures they'll bring home sharpnel scars as souviners from a land that was supposed to give them flowers and open arms but instead they shoot Kalisnakovs and rocket propelled grenades oh that the land would awaken and see that those denying have all been lying and its our boys that will bear witness in a court without repeal that the reaper does not care about spin no matter how far they go round and round the same tired lies thick like fat black flies but the boys will still be busy dying.


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