Purple Iris

Purple Iris at the foot of the old monument, wrapped in green paper and a red bow.

That war is over, of the men who came over the mountain, but the sorrow won’t go.

The mountains are green with spring, and the trees are budding, our lives do go on.

I wish I still walked with you to morning prayers, hand in hand, before the coming dawn.

 

There were wars, and there was death, and I wonder now what remains of the good?

I kissed you, for both of us a first kiss, sitting by the cold river, in the dense black wood.

I hang on to that memory, and others, and my heart aches, as headed bowed I say

my morning prayers in the grand and dark cathedral, hoping that God they will sway.

 

Purple Iris at the foot of the monument, a long ago war, when people might’ve been one.

War cannot tame all that is darkness, or end evil, just pushes it underground when won.

I wish you were here, that life had been what dreamed it might be, when we were young.

It’s noon, and I look out at the green returning to the mountains, as church bells are rung.

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