Dusk blew through the evening like dust and
The smell of yesterdays burned corpses still stained the air.

A memory of yesterday's war.
A trumpet for tomorrow's first battle.

It had been a beautiful day.

In the distance I watched a dark shadow approach my campsite.
Moving slowly with the aged legs of a man who has walked through
The desert for a thousand years.

I sat and watched this mysterious creature make his way through the
Dark of dusk towards
The licking tongs of my firelight.

Aged in his stride.
Wisdom within his posture.

Yet as he approached the circle of light my eyes revealed that he was still
Only a boy.

Bleeding and wounded from one too many wars and one too many after that,
He fell into the ground before me.
Ashes rose up from the coals
And were quickly carried by the wind towards the ocean.
Taking with them the message of his death;
And the truth of his life.

On a quiet beach five continents away
A woman prays at dawn.

A poet and a Mother

The gentle breeze brushes her breast and
She is gripped with grief.

At once she begins to write.
The story of a young boy.
The story of love, war and survival.
Hate, passion and obsession.

Of self destruction.

Of her Son.

- Peter Hattingh

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...