It needn’t conquer the world to breathe in us, wept the paint. It needn’t strike the stiff and crafty strum of a tyrant’s impatience, mourned the brush. It must turn its very foundation, humanity, to free its fettered soul, wailed the easel. It first must conquer the self to invent an escape above war’s red casualty, moaned the canvas. Peace will never be created through war's shrapnel upon the scorching sand, shrieked the art! No more war... No more war... No more war... No more war... No more war... No more war... Copyright © 2006 mrp / thepoetryman U.S. Department of Peace
(The Weaver's Song)