Beating words into ploughshares and fears into pruning hooks

Sticks and stones can break our bones
and sometimes names can lead to war
if left to fester.
All the childish bluster
of the playground brawl
fermented into nationalistic pride
will never hide
the fact that this is where war leads;
the crimson coffins of Ukrainian children,
shattered by the random cruelty of missiles
exploding on their fantasies in no-mans-land.
Time won’t mellow a parent’s rage,
drawn into the gravitational-pull of indelible hate;
revenge keeps war raw,
an open wound with insatiable appetite for more
bloodied flesh, the younger the better.
Step forward those who see things differently,
step forward the poets, prophets, peacemakers,
free our eyes to a new seeing of possibilities
beyond the endless cycles of revenge and retaliation,
a place of non-violence where the only things we beat
are words into ploughshares and fears into pruning hooks.