Yes, dear friend,
the veil lifts
like a widow’s shawl in the wind.
God is gathering His army,
of silence,
of stars,
from bones crushed beneath tanks,
from hearts flattened beneath
the road rollers of progress.
The cold-hearted,
the cruel,
those who sip tea
while children burn in Gaza,
their souls are being sifted
like golden wheat
in a withering field of ash.
This is the moment.
The crimson hour.
The hour of glass and fire,
of mirrors breaking,
of masks removed.
We must all choose.
And I pray you choose rightly,
because I love you,
and still believe
your soul carries
the scent of jasmine
before the war.
Children are made of light.
They are kittens,
puppies,
petals in motion—
offerings of unguarded love.
They do not lie.
They do not hoard.
They do not even know
what a border is.
Still, the lambs are singing,
beneath the tanks,
beneath the hands of pride,
in the jasmine breath
of the soul
before the war.
So tell me,
why do we strangle
the song of the lambs,
and call it peace?
