There is supposed to be a ceasefire in the middle-east now.
Will it last?
Will it even end anything?
I always thought this *war* (someone should call that already) was really the beginning of something sinister. Worse than 9/11.
Something resulting from unknown goals of higher personnel; leading to unknown number of death of the little people on all sides. It doesn't even matter now which conspiracy theory you believe in.
People are dead.
Dead.


Thought this poem was quite apt.

The End and the Beginning

After every war
someone has to clean up.
Things won't
straighten themselves up, after all.
Someone has to push the rubble
to the sides of the road,
so the corpse-laden wagonscan pass.

Someone has to get mired
in scum and ashes,
sofa springs,
splintered glass,
and bloody rags.

Someone must drag in a girder
to prop up a wall.
Someone must glaze a window,
rehang a door.

Photogenic it's not,
and takes years.
All the cameras have left
for another war.

Again we'll need bridges
and new railway stations.
Sleeves will go ragged
from rolling them up.

Someone, broom in hand,
still recalls how it was.
Someone listens
and nods with unsevered head.
Yet others milling about
already find it dull.

From behind the bush
sometimes someone still unearths
rust- eaten arguments
and carries them to the garbage pile.

Those who knew
what was going on here
must give way to
those who know little.
And less than little.
And finally as little as nothing.

In the grass which has overgrown
causes and effects,
someone must be stretched out,
blade of grass in his mouth,
gazing at the clouds.

by Wislawa Szymborska
(translated from the Polish by Joanna Trzeciak)
From SiroccoBlog

posted by Tazzy at  
Monday, August 14, 2006

3 responses