Call it attrition, call it slaughter,
call it the million names
in the vast cemeteries
on acres of crosses
or on the walls of monuments in France
the endless names engraved.
Call it an old sorrow in every family, the
faded yellow photo of an unremembered man
who “fell” we say,
where there is no rising.
and only then,
when energies are spent,
when everything is smashed to rubble,
then think of peace.
Peace is the state of nations
after all has gone,
a nothingness not easily achieved.