Those dogs of war

“This will be the end of war” they cried;

too many souls have this time died.

But still they strut and postulate;

those dogs of war, those dogs of hate.

When fields of green are bathed in blood

their pretty words come in a flood

but in the end we always know

it is the sword; the way they know.

They simply don’t know how to be

a loving person, proud and free.

When will they learn that we must go

into the stream; compassions flow.

The only place where we can live;

that place where victory’s to forgive.

About a foolhardy florilegium

Nullius addictus iurare in verba magistri, quo me cumque rapit tempestas, deferor hospes.
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