CONFESSION ZERO (The Weaver's Song)

In The Green Zone, or perhaps Iraq,
the warriors have all turned to clay.
Streets are littered with them.
Strewn about here and there,
statues; monuments to war’s bitter days.

The tanks and guns stand still,
quiet, with a pallid angst, at attention,
frozen like disobedient children;
the streets long silent of such mischief.

Green gunk grows underneath their feet
and through the cracking foundation.
Sand pelts all the useless street lamps
and surrenders only to the wind.

The sun leaves boot prints as it searches,
down the alleyways, lighting up the edges;
windows to paint in bright and new beliefs.
Someday the statues will topple over...
freed of their tall shadows.

Four thousand rolled away,
Warriors striding on home.
Four thousand rolled away,
Packed down beneath the loam.

Blind are the men of warring.
Deaf are the men of policy.
Dumb are imperial leaders,
Crippled of a thirst for music.

Four thousand rolled away,
Warriors striding on home.
Four thousand rolled away,
Packed down beneath the loam.

Songs go unsung among bones;
No ears heed the joyous choir,
No eyes observe the living score,
No blood left within their delight.

Four thousand rolled away,
Warriors striding on home.
Four thousand rolled away,
Packed down beneath the loam.

Leaders, blind and wicked are those
With no wings painted upon them;
Only hoisting their wretched talons
Should the music ever change.

Would I hold my hand thus if I were such a murderous beast?
Asked the wolf…
Would I be thought a monster like you if I howled in horror?
Asked the sheep…
I howl for pleasure, little sheep! I consume to nourish my sorrow!
Scolded the wolf…
I do not mean to offend your howling or persuade your hunger, sir.
Prayed the sheep….
See my opposing thumb and how it can bring me such pleasure?
Inquired the wolf…
See my shivering hooves and how they frustrate me significantly?
Echoed the sheep…

The wind now wails its bitter speech as the wolf skulks nearer.

Come! Let us sit next to one another and we shall drink a toast.
Said the wolf…
I shouldn’t. It’s not right to do so while so many continue to perish.
Replied the sheep…
Thou art afraid of me, dam? Me? A creature with such manners?
Crooned the wolf…
No. I- I- I just don’t think it appropriate to toast on this- of all days.
Answered the sheep…
But this is a day of triumph! Today’s the best day to drink to victory!
Howled the wolf…
There you go again with the howling? I told you my lambs are sleeping.
Whispered the sheep…

The wind abruptly strengthens with the crow of murderous night.

Yes. Please forgive me, sheep…. …Your lambkins are precious to you?
Posed the wolf…
All babies are precious, wolf. Are yours not precious to you?
Raised the sheep…
Of course they’re precious! I would, without a doubt, kill for them!
Charged the wolf…
Of that I’m sure. But haven’t I asked you to keep your voice down?
Sighed the sheep…
Yes. But aren’t you sufficiently fearful of offending me, little ewe?
Urged the wolf…
I have not offended you, wolf. It is you that will not do as I’ve asked.
Rejoined the sheep…

The wolf now howls with a beast’s bloody bravado!

I do not believe this- Before me is a sheep that’s utterly lacking in fear?
Marveled the wolf…
I’ve fear enough. It is your opposing thumbs that are rigid with terror.
Said the sheep.

The wind stops its screeching and the sheep suckles her babies.

Put a single bullet in the palm of your hand, it lays there, obedient, glistening, motionless, weighing no more than a thought.

Sew all grenades into the sleeves of white dress shirts making sure to leave the pins fully engaged and they shall never again need ironing.

Gently lower all IEDs to the furthest depths of the sea among the amazing and peculiar mysteries of the deep and strange creatures shall dance to their silence.

Place all the military tanks on the planet into large pots, stoke all the furnaces and melt them down into a liquid and from them erect millions of rolling libraries.

Hang all rifles and handguns from the surface of the moon like an airplane mobile or a holiday tree ornament, and listen to the wind make a joyful noise.

Sculpt all manner of bombs into enormous statues, whose eyes look down and whose brows are furrowed, and merrily stare back into their dreary faces.

Place a world of peace in the palm of your hand, feel it gently breathing, exhaling through your fingers, weighing no more than imagination.