Long Reward

Ever have men marched forth
slaves of honor and pride,
to where our grandfathers led
the places where they died.

Sacrificing on altars
that broke ancestor's hearts
changing only the faces
cast in the same old parts.

Defending the clan or kingdom
religion of whatever God,
recrossing the bloody landscape
already so hopelessly trod.

Armored knights on horses
soldiers in chain mail coats,
mixing in wars and struggles
fate landing its mighty strokes.

Warlords brought down to cower
stripped of pride at last,
admiral alone upon the sea
commanding only his raft.

When giants of understanding
free us of duty this old,
denying shopworn tradition
will be impossibly bold.

Sheathing the sword of vengeance
in understanding anew,
would mean regretting the killing
of all the men we slew.

Who then would consider our victories
reason to celebrate
if vanquishing all our enemies
caused our hearts to break.

The violent abomination
mistaken for noble cause,
come into clearer focus
and cause our hands to pause.

This growing understanding
is not easy to absorb
after ages of venerating
the power of the sword.

We suffer in mortal agony
the damage that war has done,
rebuked to stunned humility
by the dagger and the gun.

The wheels of justice turning
to the end we all move toward,
millstone inexorably grinding
the grist of our reward.


by Robert Quinn
all rights reserved