Peace

Whoever’s banging on my door, i know he’s not Peace.

He has a high-tech gun, and his finger on the trigger.

I know what he wants – to get us out, then burn everything.

If we resist, he’ll shoot us dead, and we go with our home.

Peace is a tiniest moment when i open the door to him.

Our eyes meet, he sees my frozen fear, that i offer no threat.

Then he starts to shout his order, but pauses for a second.

His gaze is behind me. Someone in my family reminds him

Of someone in his. I don’t turn my head, but try to guess.

My old mother or my little boy, or my wife or daughter?

Is his waiting for him, worried if he’ll come home or die?

He looks at me, i look at him, our silent thoughts criss-cross

Our hearths and hearts. Peace was dying but gasps now

To say “I have more time”. He says “Sorry” in my language

And leaves, not looking back. I wish him and his family well.