By Debra Wendt
Mothers hold their children close away from windows
and the street.
Empty classrooms testify learning and laughter stricken
from the book of youth.
The moon has blotted out the sun amending order – once,
birdsong beckoned through forests;
crops waved beneath the gaze of a benevolent sun,
other countries knew oppressors; we saw peace
until as a newly built fire kindling flamed –
the admonishment, hold fast, I never understood
join the fight – conflict follows an uncharted course.
The old speak of a kingdom that cannot be shaken.
Commend me to that land.