The Flowers

On the hills I often pass and travel down,
there is a field of flowers, where all seem gay,
and men stroll up and down, and all around.
They dream of peace. And dream again.

And oft when they pass the tulips and lilacs,
they walk to the fields of grassland leaves,
here they sense the calm – dream it will last,
and fall asleep inside the rows of pansies -

Just as the wind whistles through the lilies,
the echo of battles long lost and won.
And I? I take my naps among the posies -
for the greatest wars are yet to come.

The Warriors

And around they stand the warrior fire,
With thoughts of stars and winds and rain,
And for hatchets, and old men’s desires,
The rain man spins ‘round his soul again.

Up, up, the steps of heaven he ascends,
On horses clothed in white skinned wings,
And through the smoke, bleeds and bends,
The world each warrior knows and sees.

Yet he dances not for chieftain’s whim,
Nor the souls of sons, nor women’s song,
He travels to find the wind’s last hymn -
He travels to find the truth beyond.

And lo, from his dance and times bygone,
The answer quakes from heaven’s shore:
“Though fight is won, keep bows drawn,
For peace is but time between wars.”

Translation of Persian Text from 7th Century

Oh men of future, oh men of hope,
We Persian kings of old now write,
A warning to you men remote,
Listen well. And Listen right.

When the gods you long defame,
And their temples break; deform,
When you forsake your fathers’ graves,
And treat the city guards with scorn.

When pagan pleasures you condone,
And build pyres to the northern lights,
When with wine you ever groan,
And long visit women of the night.

When your honor fades and melts,
And every oath becomes unsworn -
Then you will know just how we felt,
Before the greatest war.

The Persian Marine

Oh, let’s go a sailing,
Armed with gun and sword,
Oh let’s go a sailing,
My men of boat and horde.

Oh, let’s go a sailing,
With windward, wily creep,
Oh let’s go a sailing,
While the watchmen talk or sleep.

Oh, let’s go a sailing
In oceans dark and sore,
Black flags we’ll be flailing,
Like those of pirate yore.

To the shore my men!
We will wade and charge,
To the shore my men,
Let each make his mark!

One mark for each tear,
Two marks for each ache,
Three for every fear,
And for each life we take!

Let our sabers clash!
Yes, clash, bark, then cheer!
Burn all, Burn! my men!
Brand all with fiery fear!

Triumphant we’ll sail on -
The watchmen will be dead,
With the Western shore foregone,
The Eastern will be bled.

Oh, let’s go a sailing,
The West by sea and shore,
When will we go assailing,
My men of boat and horde?

The Soldier’s Wife

I received the news a month ago,
and ever since my world’s been black,
I still can’t believe my best friend,
and husband is never coming back.
No words can seem to bring you near,
nor send you farther from my heart,
and I still regret those words once said,
that “only death can make us part”.
For it shall never separate,
the love that we have hued,
from where comes its power to claim,
the only life I ever knew?
I used to feel such anger,
for those cowards with no face,
who took you from this earth,
yet with your loss came also grace,
and the memory of your words –
that if death should be your fate,
you’d send me all your love,
so that I’d never learn to hate.
In you there was such strength,
good men are always a breed to few,
every night I close my eyes and feel,
like I’ve lost the only one I ever knew.
You should see our daughter’s smile,
how she still waits for you at night,
and crawls inside her bed to pray,
for you and those against which you fight.
Some words she doesn’t speak,
because she doesn’t want me to hear,
reminds me of the time you said,
that “prayers are made of what we fear”.
How prescient your words now are,
during this time of forced regret,
as I must now come to face,
my only fear – which is to forget.