Beloved Paris



O Paris, how thy sorrow wounds my heart!
Homer did speak of love and hate,
as being attested to thy name in myth,
but woe am I, to witness such parallels in life,
where hordes have gathered to bring
vile terror upon thy beloved shores;
as did pass in ancient tales,
they come to rob you of true beauty –
spurred on by a warped sense of justice,
chosen to mask their true intent!

O Paris, let not vengeful voices deceive you
with their weighted rage to tarnish thy gallant heart.
Thy honour is worth more than
what now transpires in thy name.
If thy suffering must inspire others to rise in rage,
direct them to fall upon only those that didst wrong you
and to strike forth in a most discriminate way and spare the innocent,
so as to retain thy righteous place as a pillar of equality and justice
and in this way, allow grace to fall on thy noble brow
once the dust of war has settled.

The world in turmoil


I weep for tranquility,
the hard-won peace
that came, but was
wastefully swept away.

I weep for the trust
and friendships of yesteryears,
now careless abandoned
by contempt.

I weep for the respect,
now lost in time,
that might never again
see light of day.

I weep for shared aspirations
laid waste, by piled up
hatred, that refuse to
stay buried.

I weep for rigid ideologies
in conflict, that fear
compromise more
than the finality of death.

I weep for what was
shamelessly squandered,
by reckless hands, so
filled with arrogant pride.

What I weep for most
are for the children
who will never see the peace
that others took for granted.