A Question

Shh. Listen to the music
Bullets zing
Hear the sound of drums in the distance—a muffled percussion of bombs
A whistle. Pretty in any other place. Not this place
A grand flurry, a timpani roll of crumbling destruction
This is the music of hate

of               fear

of

war

Shh. Listen to the silence
Of no breath, no heartbeat
The music is gone, it has done its deed
It is hungry and spent, and will rest until it can feast again
On intolerance
And replenish on revenge

Strange song in the quiet
So discreet the hunger does not hear
A little red poppy pokes its head through rubble and steel
A curious child kneels to look
And is surprised to hear, barely hear
The uncurling of leaves

“What did you learn from the ruins today?” asks his grandfather