It is not the crystal pond the postcards promise,
nor the white dove freed to expiate our guilt,
no, not at all, that was ever a dream,
peace is instead the harder question:
the disciplined tongue that wanted the final word
but surrenders it to the larger cause,
the border drawn and then unlearned
in the name of compromise,
the table laid rich for the unforgiven.

It is built slow, never bestowed,
never a right that is owed.
It asks the body first: the unclenched jaw,
the galloping breath held in check,
then asks the house,
the street,
the parliament,
to find a way (any way).

It is the twisted wire strung between countries
that have seen each other’s dead,
and the awful ground of suffering.

And it will not wait,
for the price is high.
It is our debt before we are ready to afford it,
and our willingness to surrender victory for the sake of repair.

 

12/6/2026