Friday, June 17, 2011

Compassion...

Compassion


Angels must be confused by war.
Both sides praying for protection,
yet someone always gets hurt.
Someone dies.
Someone cries so deep 
they lose their watery state.



Angels must be confused by war.
Who can they help?
Who can they clarify?
Whose mercy do they cast to the merciless?
No modest scream can be heard.
No stainless pain can be felt.
All is clear to angels
except in war.



When I awoke to this truth
it was from a dream I had last night.
I saw two angels conversing in a field
of children's spirits rising
like silver smoke.
The angels were fighting among themselves
about which side was right
and which was wrong.
Who started the conflict?







Nothing in war comes to destruction, 
but the illusion of separateness.
I heard this spoken so clearly I could only 
write it down like a forged signature.
I remember the compassion,
mountainous, proportioned for the universe.
I think a tiny fleck still sticks to me
like gossamer threads 
from a spider's web.



And now, when I think of war,
I flick these threads to the entire universe,
hoping they stick on others
as they did me.
Knitting angels and animals
to the filamental grace of compassion.
The reticulum of our skyward home.


1 comment:

Ioana-Carmen said...

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