There was once a sign for peace,

we fought for it, the world over,

Paris, 1968, the thirteenth of May, 

I was there. What happened to

peace? How was it forgotten? The

war that was, and again was, never

did it lapse, never was there peace.

The vigil sworn to peace, brought

truce only, momentary ceasefire.

Never was there not in hearts, on

tongues, a protest of tomorrows,

according to the desires of the heart,

and to the will of the tongue. Never

was there a promise that remained

unbroken. The promises which were

pledged were but fantasy’s rehearsals,

performed on make-believe stages to

empty theatres, and then forsworn.

There have been trials, rehearsals,

but never promises. And each new

promise made the former old; so old

was each new promise. By that it

was a trial, artfulness and artifice,

concealment and invention, truth

and magic, all momentarily realised.

A moral winning-post exalted,

dressed in the victor’s garments,

and man-like scarecrow, hailed in the

wooden name of God. The peace we

sought was just a dream. Possible

outcomes : whatever comes next.