To be, or not to be,
That was Shakespeare’s question
A riddle, or were we handed the Baton
The pen is mightier than the sword
Yet we rarely take this on board
In War it’s the guns who decide the question
For to be, is to make War
And not to be, are the victims of War
There are no sides in death,
No victories, no defeats,
Only faceless victims, wars receipts
And if we are all, not to be
Would god survive in his silent abbey?
And who will remember we
That is the real question.
A century approaches for World War 1
No survivors left
For all the Tommie’s are dead
And war still rears its dreadful head
And it is we, who are left to ponder,
To swear upon Gods Alter
“To be, in peace, for the earth is our mother
Not to be, at war, with our sisters and brothers.
And the bard can sleep a poets dream
Of sunsets and moonbeams
Of rivers and oceans and far off lands
For dreams confirm our conscience
And peace confirms our existence.
© Copyright 2016 steven cooke. All rights reserved.
Short Story / Other
Short Story / Historical Fiction
Short Story / War and Military
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