You arm them, and they come.
You arm them, and they will fight, and to them, their cause is right.
First with rocks you armed them, and oh how sweet their victory was.
These tools unheard of and unseen, unthought of, more like.
They came in the dark, the time where shadows whisper and then silence falls until it shrieks.
Then came sticks, deadly and long and strong.
They battered and shattered and splintered, did I say sticks? I meant bones.
Because the groans
of men went silent, the whites of their core sticking out,
like a snake out of ground.
They came with spears tipped with snakes.
Stabbing, striking, biting, angry, afraid.
The snakes were thrown, further than they should be thrown, striking a mad king’s throne.
Except he wasn’t mad, he was loyal,
except he wasn’t loyal, he was stubborn.
And so were his children, and so who were they to argue with the rocks, the snakes.
And the snakes were thrown and thrown, and then the snakes died.
Could it be the whites, the cores, released their final sigh?
No, not while still more
Could fight and bite.
Not while bangs could come, loud and angry with fury untold.
The monks and the mothers, the children and dogs.
Bitten with the bangs
of the thousands silver fangs
of the warriors armed.
Because they were armed by you.
A child’s father died,
so he unleashed the dead battle cry
Egged on by the loved one’s friends that should have known more,
that should have let the man die at his core,
and call a rest of arms.
But no, the arms can’t rest until the mind is calm,
and how can the mind be calm with the sound of bangs and fangs.
The sound of people who’ve lost their will to die, and yet don’t know how to live.
Soldiers they call themselves, and soldiers they are.
But a week before,
they were farmers and poor.
But then you armed them.
You gave them the tools to fight more,
to cause more pain to counter their own,
because violence begets peace.
isn’t that how the saying goes?