AT THE THRESHOLD
the last bombs have been dropped
and the last shots have been fired;
the living and the dead alike
have been sent home.
the healing breeze of a new day
whispers past the vanquished
battlements of enmity
and the monuments of war,
past the houses of mourning,
and exhausted armories,
past hollow halls of state
and the mocking rubble
of failed, vain empires.
a soothing rain falls on
tortured hills and valleys,
washing the wounds of
the ravaged land and
extinguishing the last
of greed, fear, and hate.
now the fanfare of songbirds
fills the void left by the
rage of armed conflict; now
fields of white poppies spring up,
fed by the spirit of peace, and
irrigated by the blood of sacrifice,
shed in the service of nations.
at the threshold of a hopeful future,
the earth at last utters a collective sigh.
© 2003 by Metta Jon Maslow (3-31-03)