OF WAR AND PEACE

 War and peace are children of the same father who cremated their mother without a gravestone somewhere in the Saturn rings.

He told his son war 

not to cry but to conquer 

and called his daughter 

a useless one, snatching her letters and burning her tongue.

He saw his son playing in the fields where people lived among corpses and sea gulls sang psalms. 

The children cut their birthday cakes made of clay in which their ancestoral bones bloomed into red patriotic cherries. 

Red sonnets where written on the markets and cement floors in syllables he couldn't read. 

The girl without a name was given the best student award posthumously even though she was not good in reading braille of bullets. 

The woman who painted her lips with orange colored bombs slept with someone humming mouth less oaths.

The loneliness of a single shoe in mud, it's lace untied crushing love letters cremated in the poppy fields.

Birds who knew the act of pickpocketting, their hands holding rifles.

Illiterate lillies in the graves not able to read the aching land's musical about the seeds of her.

Oysters loaned their pearls to the mothers and daughters auctioned off in the morning sun.

Fathers traced the maps to no man's land,unlit cigarettes between them but in the end slept with eyes wide open.

His son, drinking pomegranate juice in expensive China set,laughing 

his manhood naked and daring, just like it was supposed to be.

And then there was her, 

Peace counting days with the moon, with stories stamped in her finger tips

Thumb, of hope

Index, of faith 

Middle, of smiles

Ring, of love 

Pinky, of promises.

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