Day 5 #2
Poem 2
Three objects and peace
The gun waits to be fired,
nurses its bullets with patience.
We hope when the soldier pulls the trigger,
oh the relief of firing words.
The bomb is perhaps a flower bomb,
or it has always considered itself to be.
The pulled pin will explode out to discover
nonfire or incendiary of blossom.
The drone is a bird or the drone
is a butterfly or the drone is a bee.
If there is war above the meadow, let it be this-
the humming of colour, the precision of song
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