Before valor fades or a soldier’s honorably lain, before shrapnel and horrors stand forward, before the screech of missiles, snap of breath, before the water chokes, the warrior howls, before the steady drum and bugle sound, before the sidewalks are washed of the event, before shivering flesh and darkness ignite, before food, clothing and shelter, before the whispered birth of wayward night, before all else, were we alive? Did we sense humanity’s plea grasp this, our solemn relationship, fortunate to have been born at all, to breathe where breath is free, that the world exhales next to us, eats, drinks, prays, dies alongside our death… O is there no truth that lives, that wrestles deceit to its knees, living that scowls at hopeless war whose breath stinks beyond our living? When spirits fade and innocence slain, lowered to their private defeat, with each, a world’s breath, mislaid. © 2007 mrp/thepoetryman
(The Weaver's Song)