Wednesday, June 17, 2009
The savagery of war has destroyed the landscape of our pleasant little life
Where once lived love, and a future with a hope,
now existed a cold forgotten battlefield littered with the carcass of earlier dreams.
Dreams born of naivety, idealism and fairytales.
What becomes of hope when it can no longer stands strong?
Where does it go to die?
How do we grieve the loss of an ill-defined intangible quality?
When love must stand alone, it's no longer enough
to create the world in which I need to live.
But it might be enough to get us through
this mutilated landscape that was once our life
Once we've reached the other side, then we will know the extent of our causalities
Then we will know if we survive.
But as we step over the carcasses of decomposing dreams,
and avoid the minefields left to destroy the threads of our existence
We hold hands and hope that whatever awaits us on the other side
Will offer some hope to us both.
A tempered hope--without the naivety, idealism and fairytales.
A mature hope.
But still. A hope.