Relentlessly, we rehearse it with style:
the old performance of iron fist and destruction,
as if history were a script we mislaid
and so must perform it again from memory.

Listen, all of you who have ears to listen,
listen all of you who hold the iron and wield it,
the earth is not neutral—it holds shrapnel
the way a stone holds cold, it remembers
the cry of children in the thick metal rain.

What if we said ENOUGH with a bloodless mouth?
What if the table came first, the long table, with talk
not of demolition but of resolve?

The future looks through the window at this very hour
wearing the faces of the not yet born, and asks
if the play has ended and whether we can write
another script for a morning that has just broken.

 

23/8/2026