An ordinary Palestinian father, stripped to his waist,
and bleeding, carries in his arms a wounded Israeli soldier,
back to the front lines, where the disbelieving eyes
behind a hundred rifles watch and stare.
A blemish appears upon the polished plans of war.
A crack opens in the concrete runways of revenge.
Suddenly, the bombs are undependable; and doubtable,
are the drones of death.
The tonnages of explosives.
The math of missiles.
The arithmetic of body count.
The grid of bloodshed.
Have clay feet, and contain the seed
of their own destruction.
The father’s love for another father’s son is inscrutable
to the rational ratios and sovereign strategies of war.
The free act is a gap in the absolute mimicry of combat,
a flaw in the machinery of hate and vengeance,
and is where the beauty lies,
and is where the life grows,
and is where the river of light, flows.
The father must be shot, the event covered up,
or all peace will break out.
… all peace will break out.
So lovely to see your name pop up here. Thank you, Adela!
Brilliant
Thank you, Ananda!
Thanks for this powerful image of an empathic father in the face of the war machine. “There is a crack where the light gets in”….if only.
Thank you, Kirk! “If only…” is my prayer.
May I repost your piece onward Stephen?
There needs be a storm of posts like this. Thank you
Yes of course, Patricia. And thank you.
If only…
Sigh, and still, it’s important to envision the possibility.
Your words expose and give voice to our longings, Stephen. And our tears. Thank you.
Thank you so much this, Ann!
What Ann said.
Thank you, Diane.