THE TREE THAT HE PLANTED

 

The tree that he planted

Grew up into a mushroom cloud

With death in the branches

Hanging upside down.

The man who carried it

On his shoulders

Made wars

And always lost them

Because all wars are ultimately lost

Though some may bask in the glory

Of victories and conquests

Deluded by the immediate,

Country, king or Power.

Orphans are made in its wake

Rapes and abuses daily bread

And the mayhem may call forth

Memories of pointless courage

And undue sacrifice

That scar it to its innards.

The man who planted war

Did not see the water or love

That seeped through borders

And washed away the blood

Or the debris that grew tall

Over branches of pointless murders.

Maybe we should only plant daisies or asphodels

And desire or kisses that grow on every lip

And build castles

Where the falcons mate in mid air.