poem on peace

 1.

It is the hollow left where wind has been,
A field absolved of thunder, cool and green.
It is the weightlessness of opened hands,
The patient thread that mends the torn-out lands.

It is the space between the clock's two ticks,
The melting of the heart's most stubborn bricks.
A language spoken when all words have ceased,
A flag that is no longer for the east or west.

It is the truce between the breath and lung,
A simple, ancient song that's always sung.
Not in a fortress, but a bridge's span,
The peace that lives within a single man.

2.

The argument of sparrows ends at last,
The shadow of the future and the past
Retreats before this single, sunlit hour,
Where fear has lost its old and bitter power.

A hand unclenches, letting fall the strife,
A quiet understanding enters life.
The river flows, though rapids were below,
Into a wide, forgiving, gentle flow.

It is the breath drawn after tears are shed,
A shelter of calm thoughts around the head.
It is the hope that, like a great, strong tree,
Grows from a world where every soul is free.

3. 

The clamor of the day grows faint and thin,
A gentle quiet settles deep within.
The final, fading echo of a fight,
Is swallowed by the coming of the night.

A truce declared on every troubled thought,
The battles that the mind so often fought.
A breath inhaled where worry finds release,
This slow, unfolding, tender state is peace.

Not just the absence of the storm and scream,
But finding solace in a shared, calm stream.
A promise that the weary world can cease,
This quiet, steady, everlasting peace.