The pen is mightier than the sword—but not today.
When bombs explode, words turn to shrapnel
Like a lover’s demands left to the dead to obey,
A kiss carried off in death’s putrid satchel.
Righteousness shall flow like a mighty stream—tomorrow.
A severed head knows not of good and bad;
The cosmos is but a bank from which we borrow
Our brief lives, and evil is all-too-glad
To repay the debt before it comes due.
Yet in time the poets will legislate the land
And overthrow the violent with a written coup
Like a hurtled stone worn to gentle sand.
Until then, let us exult and let us despair
And in writing make of the two an unstoppable pair.