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.