poetry

And Still, There Is No Peace

Forever etched into the mind
is the image of that hellish-red sky;
war has ruined the beauty of night
and still, there is no peace.
As psychopathic males
play their empire games,
Mothers
of a country at war
bury their sons’ remains.

Mothers would refuse to lose
their sons
—if they could—
those Mothers whose sons are brave,
and the Mothers betrayed
by the unelected, whose laws
now force their sons out of doors
as on both sides:
to stay home means
death,
to leave home is to
die;
there’s a crying child
in every ruin
who cannot be consoled,
and all look up in
terror
each night
at a thunderous,
bleeding
sky… Whether it be in your country
or whether it one day be in mine,
no one suffers the torture of war
more than the Mother and her child.

Whether he lives
or whether he dies,
with dust in the lungs
all the Mothers that live on
—that survive—
forever in fear of:
the wailing sirens;
impending violence;
of losing another child
whenever they look up
into the approaching
night sky.

©2022 H. M. Smith, all rights reserved.

*A/N: War is a medieval act that has no place in today’s modern world. My solidarity is with Ukraine and all mothers everywhere who have lost—and will lose—a child to war.

Photo by Eva Elijas from Pexels.

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