After hearing the news of Usama bin Laden's death a child asks : Does this mean the wars are over? No, my child. No. War has not been murdered, only agitated next to its grief. War needs its clatter of heaping death; a permanence feeding off the fresh fears held dear by a quivering flock. War dresses as if it’s a great lover; a Don Juan looking for its next victim, wishing to remain the world’s top assassin, purged only as Love hauls it away. War, my dear child, aimlessly hordes flesh and bone; a marriage in disarray, bodies strewn about as if the sacred ground were an over-sized and filth-ridden couch, destruction, its violent spouse. © 2011 by mark prime
(The Weaver's Song)