Photo by Lucio Patone on Unsplash
How many years must pass before poets cease
to sing the fame of soldiers’ white cold bones
long bleached by blazing sun without release
to wrap strong arms around loved wives at home?
I do not wish to sing of arms and men
as did the poet gone centuries ago,
nor hail blood feuds like jealous brother Cain
whose angry hand blood-slayed twin Abel low.
Resolved to end that temptress Siren’s song
which cruel has left brave sailors dead,
their souls, like bold Aeneas, fated long
to sail eternal seas deep soaked blood-red,
I sing of olive twigs born high by doves
that drop strong seeds of lasting peace and love.