The Box II

The Box, Part II





Too few remember now; but clearly

I recall that fateful dreary

day that we discovered that

locked up box of yore.

In chains it lay; with years of grime

accumulated over time, and a

piece of tattered paper taped

upon the wooden door.



And scrawled upon this hurried note,

a hasty person sought to wrote;

“dear women, men and children –

please do listen, I implore – this

box here holds no joy, concern;

it knows not tears and cannot learn;

I beg my friends, don’t pick the

locks, don’t break the chains –

it’s war.”



Now; it’s hard to say whom is to blame –

the children cry they left it lain,

the  women claim they didn’t touch

that dusty box of yore.

The men all say they left it be;

it’s tattered note enough to see

the box was better left alone; locked

up like years before.



But someone opened up the box.

They broke the chains. They picked the locks.

They left the battered carton upturned

upon the floor. And all together,

breaths abated, we all stood, aground,

and waited; waited for this

frightful thing the stories all

called War.



But silence. Nothing. We all smiled;

(believing we had been beguiled)

and  joking ever lightly we all went

on as before; and even as we heard

the tales of bombs and tanks and siren

wails – no one really listened when

one spoke about such ‘bore’.



‘Til we saw the ball.

And saw it’s craft.

And swiftly did it stop our laughs.

And quickly did we understand how

truthful was the lore. And stunned

and froze and unprepared; one by one

we all grew scared, and watched

it kill and maim and burn; and tears

and bloodshed pour.



And though with words I can’t explain,

this scheming ball - it fed on pain;

and cunningly it planned its falls,

and hurt yet more and more –

and no amount of reason, pleading,

would subside it’s need for bleeding;

and every day would bring more pain;

more dead upon the floor.



And perhaps it’s me just being daft;

But as I watched it carve it’s path

of death, I got the feeling

we had seen this all before,

and as the ball grew yet more great,

it seemed to generate more hate;

and pretty soon we turned on friends

and justified it’s gore.



So men killed children. Fathers.

Sons. They gutted daughters, aunts

and mums – babies, too, were

not immune; and burnt in name

of war. And these killers seemed, well,

not to care; or even doubt why

they were there, they simply came with guns

and tanks; and left friends dead and sore.



And all that mattered; love and peace,

friendship, bravery – seemed to cease,

and no one could remember why they

started it all for. But now that war

was free and rolling; the bombing sirens

loud and tolling –

“It cannot be stopped.”

…Well, that’s what they all tell us now –

of war.



And one sad day, I found, screwed-up,

a piece of paper old and tucked

into a dying tree that seemed to

droop down to the floor. And it’s words,

now stained and faded; a familiar message

had it baded, warning –

“Kindly do not touch,

It’s war.”