Suppose no villages were lit,
thatched roof houses made pyres
like pagan straw deities,
fathers play spindle games,
their boys dodge balls
instead of sniper bullets.
Can you dream?
Suppose the faithful stay
out of love, not fear
of being shot for their God,
plowed under their fields,
still green from spring's planting,
awaiting soul's harvest.
Women pull children
near for bedtime tales and tucks,
not to shield eyes from death,
depraved dogma
that downs dads for kindling,
a town square bonfire.
Can you see?
Suppose families say prayers,
faces lit by hearths,
not by shelled ruins,
gather at tables
(not under wagons
in a gypsy convoy).
Suppose your family was next.
Can you run?
© 2003 Jason C. Jones