April 14, 2003
The sun of last summer shone upon war,|
our towns and villages consumed in flame;
racked and tortured, our people and our land,
led, hounded, forced into black doom and ruin,
a nation torn, with faces grim and grave,
sowing the whirlwind, reaping the harvest.
The wheat still stands in fields that no hands harvest,
the fields devastated by passage of war;
many a procession comes to a new grave,
dug to receive a young life perished in the flame
to consummate a nation's rush to ruin,
the flame-death of what was a flame-born land.
It burst phoenix-like from ashes, this our land,
this not the first time. Death often the harvest
of each new rising, and then into ruin
and darkness again. The harsh winds of war
fanned again and again the passion's flame,
and then buried it into yet another grave.
Only another in a long line, this grave
upon whose brink now stands my burning land
will serve to bury once again the flame
and once more Death will reap his dreadful harvest.
But this time it is a never-ending war,
leading nowhere but into burning ruin.
And if all I see ahead is black ruin
then our destiny is indeed bleak and grave,
hemmed in as we are from all sides by our war,
the war that's tearing apart our land.
Bitter and long remembered this harvest,
so much kept hot in hatred's burning flame.
It is never going to scour clean, this flame—
it leads only to destruction, ash and ruin,
and fields which no-one is left to harvest
will turn memories of still unborn children grave
and will poison the people of this land.
Such is the legacy of brothers' war.
And when we harvest young lives into the grave
the scorching flame leaving all a smouldering ruin,
we have a dead land—a forever living war.
· · · · · ·
Poetry on Swans
Alma Hromic on Swans (with bio).
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