Z: Pax

Forever the grass-breathed silence is now.
One foot slowly revolves,
soldier, lazy, now ex (one supposes)
only half in uniform, half...metaphorically,
because he has seen it die.
At last he greets a different sun
who beams whitely from a nest of aquamarine.
Perhaps the reasoning is over
with the fight.
All regulation, now spurned.
Is it peace which is our corruptor,
we quest towards it, and yet
in our efforts the grit is lifted to the surface once again
(although it is not needed to reach the end)
No: because war screams out like an adolescent
in slow pain.
Peace, the adult maybe
is still now, in the lacy late infancy of its bloom.
Patience, this time we should guide it,
and maybe the child will not cry
when grit gets in her eyes.