I am weary of the war
that goes on somewhere,
everywhere,
outside and in.
Is peace so difficult?
Why are the innocent to blame?
Why do our notions excite to blood?
I don’t see it in children.
Did I cross a river
that changed me?
Did war creep into my soul
and the flower died?
The bird inside,
folded its sorrow
and refused to fly?
Did that happen?
Did it happen to you?
Did we change,
or are we not to blame?
Are so many of us
the shadows lining the road?
The refugees of peace,
the people who still feel rain
on their faces.
Who turn the other cheek.
Who sing the songs of their mothers,
who never hated,
never believed enough
to hurt or maim.
Who gave away their bread and shoes,
sharing each others need.
If there are so many of us,
if we are the peacekeepers,
why is there war?
Why do we suffer?
Why are children not loved like angels?
When the boat leaves
I will wonder.
When I say good-bye,
it will be with a prayer,
that war comes with me
with its sad dreams.