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This is in inspiration for my favourite poem, 'The Box', by John Devner. |
The Box, Part II Too few remember now; but clearly I recall that fateful dreary day that we discovered that locked up box of yore. In chains it lay; with years of grime accumulated over time, and a piece of tattered paper taped upon the wooden door. And scrawled upon this hurried note, a hasty person sought to wrote; “dear women, men and children – please do listen, I implore – this box here holds no joy, concern; it knows not tears and cannot learn; I beg my friends, don’t pick the locks, don’t break the chains – it’s war.” Now; it’s hard to say whom is to blame – the children cry they left it lain, the women claim they didn’t touch that dusty box of yore. The men all say they left it be; it’s tattered note enough to see the box was better left alone; locked up like years before. But someone opened up the box. They broke the chains. They picked the locks. They left the battered carton upturned upon the floor. And all together, breaths abated, we all stood, aground, and waited; waited for this frightful thing the stories all called War. But silence. Nothing. We all smiled; (believing we had been beguiled) and joking ever lightly we all went on as before; and even as we heard the tales of bombs and tanks and siren wails – no one really listened when one spoke about such ‘bore’. ‘Til we saw the ball. And saw it’s craft. And swiftly did it stop our laughs. And quickly did we understand how truthful was the lore. And stunned and froze and unprepared; one by one we all grew scared, and watched it kill and maim and burn; and tears and bloodshed pour. And though with words I can’t explain, this scheming ball - it fed on pain; and cunningly it planned its falls, and hurt yet more and more – and no amount of reason, pleading, would subside it’s need for bleeding; and every day would bring more pain; more dead upon the floor. And perhaps it’s me just being daft; But as I watched it carve it’s path of death, I got the feeling we had seen this all before, and as the ball grew yet more great, it seemed to generate more hate; and pretty soon we turned on friends and justified it’s gore. So men killed children. Fathers. Sons. They gutted daughters, aunts and mums – babies, too, were not immune; and burnt in name of war. And these killers seemed, well, not to care; or even doubt why they were there, they simply came with guns and tanks; and left friends dead and sore. And all that mattered; love and peace, friendship, bravery – seemed to cease, and no one could remember why they started it all for. But now that war was free and rolling; the bombing sirens loud and tolling – “It cannot be stopped.” …Well, that’s what they all tell us now – of war. And one sad day, I found, screwed-up, a piece of paper old and tucked into a dying tree that seemed to droop down to the floor. And it’s words, now stained and faded; a familiar message had it baded, warning – “Kindly do not touch, It’s war.” |