A man who has seen war searches for meaning in the destruction. |
Through the dirt and grime of the Powder and shot, canister and perforations, The terrible screams in the tall grass, The red-soaked rocks on the high ground, I asked myself why men must commit arms Against one another. A gallant general walking in stride with his Steed once told me it is for land and glory. The priests and royal advisors claim God. The common soldiers seek loot and plunder. All have their justifications, yet rooted underneath Is something dark, fiery, unknowable: A universal cause of war. It is a concept that at once slides from fingers Like thin grains of sand. No matter how hard I tried to clutch it, yet more spilled through. For years I roamed from battlefield to battlefield, Endlessly searching, among the piles of rifles, The reused uniforms, the mass graves. Still, It eluded me. What more could I hope to find? I gave up, and that’s when I achieved a breakthrough. It came upon me as I contemplated the burning Wreckage of Trafalgar. Never before had I seen Such terror in the men’s eyes. It haunted their faces, Reflected across a terrible backdrop of red and black Charring the sky. Waves lapped pitifully against the wretched Hulks, the skeletal remains of the once great battleships. It was there that I understood the meaning of fighting, of war: That there is none, no greater purpose. It is all A subjective ploy, pitting king against king like on an elaborate Chessboard. The pawns have their role, as do the bishops, The knights, the castles. War is written in the behavior Of all men. So long as there are at least two men In the world. There will be war. As I hastily scribbled my revelation into a roll of parchment In my quarters, I was at first overwhelmed with a horrid Sense of loss, like something vital in my breast had shriveled And died. Then, I listened to the rocking of the boats, The groaning of the wood, the quiet of the water, And I realized that this is no tragedy, but the way of all Things in the world. There exists a balance, Like the sun and moon, the night and day, war And peace. Without the bleak landscapes of war, The darkened industries of its production clouding The sky, even the most harmonious peace would hold no weight. Wallowing in our gluttonous self-consumption, we would fall. But war, yes, war is the key, unlocking the gifts Of a higher thing, so that once the drums of battle Fall silent upon the bloodied leaves on the plains, With brighter, hopeful eyes, this brave world, we will see. |