Our battlefields

Sometimes, a battlefield looks like a jar of lemongrass
Harvested, cleaned, dried and chopped up to make tea.
In a world ravaged with aggression, abdication and apathy,
It’s a quiet resistance of life in the realm of death.

Sometimes, a battlefield looks like a simple meal
Made by charging through weary, sorrowful days
In a house that mourns those that could not be saved
As they slipped away, listening to Nero playing the fiddle.

Sometimes, a battlefield looks like a prayer
Offered by swimming upstream through tears
In a land ravaged in the Holy Month
Battered, burnt, evicted and hauled out of home.

Sometimes, a battlefield looks like a breath
Taken in willfully in the midst of death
It is a breath that defeats, albeit only for a moment
The dam of doom over the flow of life.

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