the old man stirs the fire,

between the small childinside each of us,and the Mother’s breast!the simple strikingof the common match,that lights the fire,the broom that sweeps,yet has no name or need…the words of the prayerwe pray with every breath!

for the groanof leaves beginning to turn.and the sight of your eyesundressing you heartin the simplest moment…the wrinkled smile, talkingsoftly about nothing….and giving it meaning.some things just are…and destiny is a small windthat blows the falling leafinto the almost soundof laughter on your lips…a chill in the air…we build a small firewith the hands of…

a matter of choice….too much hurt and need,too much despair;and you’re not doinganything real to fix it.we’ve been fed the lie,but it doesnt fill the belliesof the hungry, the jobless,and the poor…while you keep trading,exacting profit from oppression,and insulating yourselvesfrom the beating of hearts.no taxation without representation;we threw tea in the harborand tyranny in the…

i too oft kissed compassionon the cheek…betraying my conscienceto feed my hungers…too oft dug shallow gravesin my haste to keep going….too oft took a sip of water,and poured the rest on the ground….too oft crossed myself,gave a couple dollars to a begger,but kept some back for myself….too oft looked into the eyes of need,and only…

that has driven my generationto own that which should neverbe owned by anyone…by the self-centered hungerthat has driven us to consume,without thought of ever putting back.by the blindness and fearof our prejudicial morality…by the excuses we’ve lefton our children’s plate!

and you read his last letter, again and again.when he talked about fear, and doubt…not knowing why anymore,not knowing if he was doing the right thing,not knowing if anything was right…and the faces of women and childrenthat left him sleepless…will it be only then,that you question the war?