Fighters, everyone, all of us,
In a civil war, so old,
So all-encompassing, that it is
Seldom noticed, by those caught
In its fray,
But when it is considered, this ugly
Seldom is it recognised
For what it truly is.
We, the combatants, struggling to survive,
To make ends meet,
Accept this blind constant war
As life, in all its tepid normality.
We call it Progress,
Our eyes blinded by the shrapnel force
Of lies, our minds tranquillised
By the momentary calm, of transient
Safe havens, where some reprieve,
However brief, is found
Against this Tempest of cruel, internecine conflict
We dare to call Civilisation.
But even here,
Civil strife awaits, ticking away time,
That it might explode
In our amnesia-slackened face.
More war, more struggle, ever-hungry
To consume humanity,
To drench itself
In the spilled blood of Reason.
The few, the seldom few
Who can yet perceive the war
For all it truly is, scurry
In the canyon trenches of urban
Insurgence, powerless, maybe,
To stem this bitter tide of civil war,
Yet all the more, they see,
There’s yet scope for peace,
Beyond this eternal asymmetric, multi-faceted conflict,
That a time will come, some day,
For a life fit for living,
If we will dare to open eyes,
Dare to see, to deny, to resist,
To desist, this,
The cruel face of hidden civil war,
The barbarism that calls itself
2 April 2010
This poem makes its first appearance here.
Copyright © April 2010. All Rights Reserved.