Orange lights can carry the mind away. But the heart will never release the pain of that which is death. Across bright oceans and ever growing fields; the red curse of blood was drawn like when the sun turns sick and weak. For the fear of the world which would die. The fear of the human heart is the cause of such great death. This death sweeps even over the eyes of the living. The world can feel by human horror alone; as if it would die from the sun which would then turn forever dark. And it was as if its lights were to now and then go out forever. As such was the world when held as it was. Held in the horror and the grip of cruel war.
To give up the lives. The lives of one’s children. To the cruel depths of this red nail. This great den of empty thoughts and mindless intentions. This great senselessness which is the violence itself. To give up these lives is to diminish one’s own power which is finite, finite and hence nothing under the crushing evening of infinite weight, when one sees the dead.
Icy death, is standing by the pitch of all the strings from within which is every Atom. Cold eyes are those who saw such bitterness as that blurry night of death in those trenches. The night was of such pain that it comes still today like bleach destroying the minds behind our eyes. The images then unfolded by the tainted white ray of sun bleeding into everything. Nothing tender was known then. When seeing death these visions of the dignity of humankind stand before us like angels in the fire. And then we hope for whatever simple purity which may still exist in the hearts of men such as these.
You, you were like a light which drifted between the worlds. We had to give you up. On that day of agony like heat from the torches. We had no other choice. For no one could defend you. You were strong and always kind. Just like a mountain stream you were blessedness to all the land before us. We saw your strange ray of love in the grain below us on the ground. We cried in horror as your body weak and limp was slain before us. Your blood was like red flowers in the meadow. Your eyes were the only valley of peace which we had seen across those times. And then you, o you, you freakish soldier and also saint, you hovered above us in the field of battle with those bizarre and pale hands of yours. Those hands were love and mercy to us. Water would flow down from your eyes and save our lives in all of our great droughts. Your ghostly apparition stood before our haunted eyes in the image of fear mixed with joy. We can never forget the sweet touch of your eyes.
To bury the weapons of war is to know the heart of God. You are my beloved, my child who is the light of the moon, my beloved, who is the purity of the sun. Today I remember you abiding beyond life and even then beyond death. Because of what you have known, and what you will still forever know. You have now learned, you have learned from that war in which you died, and you will be forevermore to speak, for you have spoken; that to bury the weapons of war is to know the heart of God!
From these, these metal forests of New York, to those flowering fields of the Atlantic waters, to the stone walls of London, and these deep chasms below Paris, to the great halls of Berlin, and to the ancient temples of Rome, and to every ear in the echoing streets of Istanbul, and to every hearing heart in the great square of Moscow. Let it be known. Let it be heard. And let it ever to be seen from every crucified heart of that war. Perceive this great image which stands now before us unfolding in the clouds! That whoever buries the weapons of war will see the heart of God!