Neither pen nor the sword will deliver us now
and little, if any, is hope that somehow
a cure could be written for Hate by Love’s hand.
For alas! Love does not write.
Or perhaps wage a war that would cover the land
that we might, for victory, fight
But woe to you, Virtue, for it appears you are hidden.
And Love’s only curse is that she cannot be written.
Ah then! But Hate takes both pen and the sword;
both author and subject is he.
And Anger, his friend, gleans his reward
from destroying the Love that he sees.
But wretched are you, oh Rage unbidden.
Hate’s only joy is it cannot be unwritten.
This joy and this curse, this hatred and love,
sadly, are one and the same.
We now wage a war that is not from above
and Love against all shall be blamed.
Love will be wronged.
Hate lasts too long.
The weak may be strong
as prose becomes song;
forever
remember
the darkness.