My sword I hung upon the wall
my steed put out to pasture,
the arts and letters of the peace
I've determined now to master.
Warring is a terrible thing
eating at the soul of man,
traced to the serpent in the tree
from whence it all began.
The sins of Cain hang over us
with every bloody stroke,
envy greed and jealousy
the fires of hate do stoke.
Weary now and wounded
in body and my soul,
retreating to a place of rest
my spirit to console.
Armor grown uncomfortable
remorse heavy on the heart,
hearth and field and family
beckon for another start.
Trade killing ground for cropland
and weapon for a plow,
bounty of my homeland
becomes my succor now.
Old enemies being vanquished
passion and fury spent,
remembering in bewilderment
wondering where they went.
The world turns on beneath us
rushing to tomorrow,
more lives spent in madness
drowning us in sorrow.
What be the master’s judgment
of sins done in his name
with appetite for conquest
impossible to tame.
Veterans stunned and weakened
offer counsel to deaf ears,
witness of new conflicts
leading to more tears.
by Robert Quinn
all rights reserved
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