Not all of them
require
the blood of innocents,
not all demand
we trample down
the web of life
that feeds our body and our soul.
It doesn't have to be like this.
Colours and springs
the wondrous caravan of life,
its cruelties
and sweetnesses,
its flashing lights
the tangled jungle
laden with snakes and butterflies,
the brittle, hard-edged city
clanging with noise
teach us - if we would hear -
a few short words
that just cannot be spoken now
because they do not lie, but lie
beneath the flow
of humdrum life, hidden, but there,
a deep intensity
that if we knew it every day
would make us run
shouting, as Ramakrishna ran
Kali-beguiled,
but killing nobody, as we,
assenting to the framework, do,
silently, giving the nod
because we're soft,
and let our passive selves be led
by solemn lies
dressed up in suit and ties.
Maybe the pen
was mightier than the sword, but guns
and bombs, they make
all physical existence weak.
And so, without a word
we give our cash to hired guns,
to leaders who,
like it or not, express our will.
Even so, the way of death
is not the only way for us.
Joyful, we can
take up the tiny-colossal
changes that lead
away from death and misery.
It does not
have
to be
like this.
© Richard Lawson
2007
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