War is a wasted land,
a wounded state where none may truly live,
so may not be defended;
whose deep ravines, made from dry, parted lips,
wide, fearful eyes, and broken homesteads,
are empty of prophet, in death, devoid of meaning;
where the very skin of earth is cut,
and love lies bombed and bleeding.
Courage can be a capital city
a freehold space where opponents come to sit
and hope be ever mended;
whose public belvederes and bowers, made strong
by transparent rumination and debate
all teem with life, in truth, where words have meaning;
where the very heart of earth is put,
and peace upheld with feeling.