We Dream of Peace

Like merciless vultures roaming above the wild grasslands,
you pick right through the bones 
of lovers and widows, of old men and their brothers.

The poet’s fingers bleed black ink
till his eyes hurt and his heart profoundly feels,
rising the ire against Algea, Miseria and Phentos
who strike on mortals with arrogant contempt.

Suffering cannot be eradicated from the human existence
nor can the lust for power in the hands of avaricious men,
but the nights are filled with dreams of the days 
when the fields are painted with hyacinths and lilies
and the scent of bergamot and rosemary fill the air. 

The silence tastes like bread and honey 
when the rumbles stop and we walk the fields 
unaware of the presence of gods of suffering 
looking at us in disdain and painting the skies
—not with a velvet brush,
but with birds of iron and breaths of fire.

Gods of misery, please stand aside,
and let us again walk those verdant fields
where a sweet scent now lingers 
under a sky so quiet and a world so lovely
renewed in peace lilies bright.

—Bernadete van der Wielen, ‘25