The War
Cynthia Zhang
(Written November 25, 2012)

The War

To be or not to be,

This was the question.

 

When the battle ended,

Two half dead soldiers on wires

Were the only leftover

Of the war ashes.

 

One was in black uniform,

And the other was in white.

 

The losing consciousness

Of life and the colors of the world

Clung to the hatred of

The two warriors for each other.

The life saving sliver of hatred

Was so virile,

Sustaining the two

To have a verbal combat

Of the most sacred

With the most vulgar tongue.

 

Like two quibbling birds,

The soldiers fucked every possible

Family member of the other.

Then they laughed

To enhance the effect

Like howling owls.

 

As if that was not enough,

They began a competition of

Contempt of the other’s side:

The uniform, the flag, the myth,

The national religion, and the tradition.

Like Plato himself,

They switched track effortlessly

To the precise dissection of the

Hypocrisy and pathology

Of all imaginable faith

The other could exploit

As the last straw.

 

Whose fault was that?

They knew each other so well.

They were brothers and neighbors

Merely several years ago.  

There was a time

When they worked together,

Laughed together,

And were proud of each other.

 

Then the war began.

As an eyesore grew,

They rediscovered

Their root, their ancient heritage

And their hatred for each other.

A long dead ethnic split

Came back to life

With a blink of eye.

Thousands of people

Were regimented into

Matrices of a robotic

Killing program.

 

No turn back.

No regrets.

 

They said the fight between

Two formerly intimate friends

Were far fouler than ordinary feuds.

A war among intertwined

Bloodlines, loyalties and ideologies?

Only God had the courage

To peek into the dark room

Of orgies, horror and fear.

When the fear was amplified

By the fear of betrayal,

Any reason like reasoning

Escaped from

All possible human shaped

Bodies.

 

The fear fed fear

Finding an outlet

In more shooting, killing

And apocalyptic grievance.

Fear fed hatred

Smothering or exploding.

 

But alas,

What a perfect world it was

Not a long time ago.

People built their homes,

Mended their fences,

And bridged distances.

 

Under each roof

There was a family

Enjoying each other’s company,

Their pets and simply

A place they called home.

 

They also built a dream land

With flowers, poems and psalms.

Oh, glorious was the fantasy!

Human bodies were on

People’s mind,

High on pedestals,

And stacked to reach the sky.

 

They forgot an empire

Built on the same code

Vanished in mystery.  

 

When that first gun shot

Ripped apart the fusion of people

And their comfortable couple quilts,

A tiny land broke into nations

In a fashion the land masses

Clash and squeeze

Into continents.

 

Guns in hand,

Friends turned into fatal enemies.

Flags in the air,

The new born countries

Beckoned the ultimate sacrifices.

Radio messages all over,

The secret forces guarded

The nations and their people

Using their intelligence and bodies.

 

Alas, the tranquility was lost

To that ancient imagination

Of God’s nightmare.

 

Again, people turned to their bodies

For an answer.

 

Guns in hand,

They were used to shoot enemy bodies.

Flags in the air,

They were used to direct bodies

Dipped in national pride.

Radio messages all over,

They were used to distract and attract

Bodies on both sides.

 

Millions of bodies

Were the target

And the purpose.

Lost forever were

The noble mind

And the higher being

The body was created

To strive for and symbolize.

 

But how noble people were

In each battle!

 

When the husband was gone,

His wife took his trench.

She shot as precise as her husband.

She wished to ride her horse

Into the enemy battalion.

She wished she could

Stab each and every enemy’s chest

With a bare curved sword!

Holy lord,

Holy war!

 

When one regiment disappeared,

Their brothers took its position.

The same one-mindedness

To win.

The same forgetfulness

Of their fragility.

 

Canons thundered.

Missiles rose shrieking.

Aircrafts dropped tons of bombs

On enemies, open field and towns.

 

When the dawn came,

The enemy town was breached.

 

The surrendered town was

A concentration camp

Of silent hostility.

The blank stares

Hid killing intention

And generated plans of

Ambushes and cold shots.

Chills crawled on the strongest arms

Holding the deadliest machine guns.

 

Aimless and exhausting patrol

Drained the vitality

And ate on the morale.

An army without enemy

Was frustrated and angered

Like a boiling ocean.

Casualty crept up

As the will power swing of war

Inched into each filthy dead-end ally.

In the eyes of the trapped lions,

Each adult man was suspicious.

But the most hateful were

Women and children

Bandaged on vehicles of dynamite,

Rushed and pushed to die

With anyone and anything close by.

 

The war dragged on and stagnated.

 

Winter finally came.

Nature declared a forced truce

With snow flakes and

Roaring gust and freezing.

The fertilizing land of nurturing milk

Waned.

The blooming blossoms

Withered with browned memories.

 

On the white expanse of wasteland,

One red rose shimmered

Against the navy blue universe.

 

Like eternity,

The rose ascended

To the mid point

Of the sky and the earth,

Touching the space

And hugging the mother nature.

 

The memories of the rose

Wound back to the pre-war years

When the hope was high

And the dreams were real.

Children laughed and chased around.

Seniors doused off from time to time,

Grumpy but happy.

And the cream youth

Cashed on their prime

To fall in love.

 

Oh, how sweet was the young love!

A Greek statue of James

Handed a rose to a shy Tess,

Inviting her for a tango.

An unsteady hand of Tess

Could not hold the rose.

A shaky hand of James

Took it and stuck it

On Tess’ waterfall of

Blond hair.

 

The music was on,

Their eyes were glued

By the holding hands.

The nervous rhythm collided

With the jerking knees.

James tried to throw out Tess

To let her spin

On her foot.

Tess pulled James

To a standstill

When the inside balance

Broke.

 

Forced to stop,

James and Tess made faces

To each other.

Like a gentleman,

Like a lady,

They kept distance,

Preparing to begin

Again.

 

The music volume was up.

The breath was even.

The tantalizing leading

Was straightforward.

The step backward following

Was hard to sustain.

The leading and following

Puppet dance string was pulled

By an inner monster of James,

Ready to devour Tess.

 

When the limbs

Were no longer numb,

When the estranged hearts

Were no longer distant,

James threw out Tess.

Tess swirled,

Stood on one foot

And let herself

Fall back on James’ arm.

Thrown out again,

Tess fell into James’ embrace,

Face to face,

The moment the band

Drummed out the last note.

 

Taking the rose from Tess’ hair,

James put it in his mouth,

Holding it with lips.

Then he lowered his head

To deliver the rose

To Tess.

 

The last thing the rose remembered

Was the full moon of Tess’ lips.

 

The winter persisted.

The red rose descended and wandered

Hunting for the trace of James and Tess.

Its worst suspicion was

Their earthy death

Of an endless sleep

With their hearts crying out

For each other

On the two sides

Of the war.

 

This last rose of the winter

Lived long enough

To see the return of the spring.

When life of the nature

Was breathed into plants,

The devastated land began to feel

The true hope of peace.

 

The peace building task

Seemed un-surmountable.

When the war swept away

The last hint of trust,

What could be used

To build a future?

But a future has to be rebuilt

As life has to go on.

 

To be or not to be,

That is still the question.

Living might be more difficult than death.

 

When you daydream,

You hear Octovius’ words:

Death is the natural result of life.

Life lives on a body.

Bodies are used as symbols.

If you have an answer to

The ultimate meaning of symbols,

You would find the answer

To the question

Of to be or not to be.