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To the Peacemakers |
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Fiction |
Bring me to the altar
Where my broken spirit yearns for the fragrance of peace
Where these sunken eyes no longer have to endure the sight
Of mutilated flesh ripped apart in the minefields of Mozambique
Namibia, Kosovo, once the green fields I roamed free,
Skipping happy childhoods into violent tomorrows.
Bring me to the altar
So I may forget the sound of my sister's muffled agony
As she folds over in pangs of hunger, forgotten at the corner
Of our little home in North Korea, chills of the night biting
Into shriveled yellow skin, hanging onto fleshless bones of war.
Bring me to the altar
And leave me there beneath the warmth of God's mercies
Sure to come. Take my bowl and fill it with the sacrifice
Of your silver. Do not defile it with red tape and strings
That will tie me, my children, and my children's children
To endless debt, leaving us hollow shells of humanity
Shivering with shame, in the valleys of Haiti.
Bring me to the altar
And cloth my Afghan sorrow with shrouds of kindness
Look into my eyes and see your very own; you are me,
I am you, we are one. maroon faces of the deserts, white faces
Of the winterlands, black faces of the tropics, all dirt
Of the earth, sharing holy breath and a halo of humanity
When you slaughter my children upon your altar of war
In the name of peace, you kill your very own soul.
Bring me to the altar
And sing with me the song of hope
That keeps this sinking spirit rising with each new day
Take my hand and lift this lost Man of Sudan above the endless
Clatter and clamour for power. Help me to raise my weary head
To heights of dignity long forgotten. Show me how to kneel
In reverence and say a prayer of kindness for all
Who have sinned against me and those that I love.
Bring me to the altar
And teach me to forgive when the scars of my stolen freedom
Still fester on my tortured Palestinian body. My mother
Sits on a jagged rock that once was a part of her home
In the West Bank. Israel, brother of mine! She cries out,
Have mercy on me. But Israel is running wild, lost in grief
As he bears the spilt bowels of his child, blown apart
By the little bomber who dared to dance with death.
Bring me to the altar!
And show me the face of God
That I may find a semblance of sanity
In this world so restless with war
Lift up the bread of a new resurrection
Lift it high like the flag I saluted when
I danced for my siblings' freedom in East Timor.
And when you have dipped your bread
In the wine of peace and gently touched
The cracks of my trembling lips
Then I know - I know
That I shall have the strength
To put away my sword of vengeance
To arise from my ashes, and say:
Amen, Amen, Amen.
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Mkawasi Mcharo Hall |