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.
