Ceasefire

Decade upon decade
hollow words spill
onto the ashen remains 
of intolerance and ill will
as if man’s disease,
words alone might heal.
Like a broken-hearted lover
who dangles in the palm of hope,
surrendering one last ounce of dignity
to the one wielding a rope.

A heart-wrenching dance
between predator and prey
under tenuous, somber skies of gray,
clouds bearing witness
To the betrayer and betrayed.

The beast rests at ease in his silent abyss
Scheming as he courts
a flicker of tomorrow’s faith
just enough to earn trust
in his treacherous ways.

How can my sky of black velvet lace
be stippled with diamonds
and the moon’s tame embrace
when hers is worn out, woven, it seems,
from barbaric threads on a loom so obscene,
it spews nights of terror onto those who, at birth
dared toss the dice that would foretell their worth?

What lullaby does a mother sing
under man’s ceasefire skies?
Do her children believe
in the stories she weaves?
Does she flog herself knowing
her song but deceives?

Might she unfurl
from my black sky of comfort
genuine hope
to share with her young ones?
Or will man’s ceaseless bravado,
a new mandate impose
with a fistful of cruelty
where souls decompose?

Perhaps mother and child
will inhale songs of peace
clutching onto one another
as their limbs gently release
into the tranquil embrace
of an eternal sleep.

With my daughter
and another mother’s child.
Morocco, 2010
Photo by Bernardo de Albergaria