The Death of War

When the panther was born
and a child lay dead in the mud,
a man came to the panther and shouted:
“Die! I hate you with every depth of my soul!”

But the panther,
dripping with tears,
kept killing.

Two came and begged:
“Disappear, lie of life!
Crawl back to the grave where you belong!”

But the panther,
torn by grief,
kept killing.

Twenty came.
A hundred.
A thousand.
Five hundred thousand.

They roared:
“We are the storm of hate,
we carry power,
but we will not break you!”

And the panther,
heavy with tragedy,
kept killing.

Millions closed in on him.
Their voices whispered the same plea:
“Disappear, killer of innocence!”

But the panther,
broken by sorrow,
kept killing.

Then all the peoples of the earth rose.
They formed a circle of silence around him.

The panther lifted his head.
His eyes, dark as endless nights,
looked at them—
filled with shame, regret, and longing.

Slowly, he sank to his knees,
took the dead child in his claws,
laid the child among flowers,
red as the wound,
and lay himself down in the mud.

And there,
in the heart of all mankind,
his claws became the great sleep—wings.

And out of the mud
rose a field of flowers,
red as the wound,
that sang in silence of peace.