There, they make war,
take each other prisoner
in turns
and turn each other
into dogs.
They’ll never make peace,
never take each other
into an embrace and kiss,
their fists
will never drop the sword
and clutch a rose instead.
They’ll never be into blooms
instead of booms,
will never bombard their fellows
(who they see as adversaries)
with a fragrance
that needs no treaty
nor ending.
Here, it’s the same.
Spring is late coming,
thorns are sharp,
no sign yet of blossoms;
the air is thick
with discontent.
Their children and ours
play together
on an island of dreams,
their only discontentment:
one day they’ll be as us –
playing war games;
should we teach them
or learn from them?
