Call it attrition, call it slaughter,

call it the million names

in the vast cemeteries

on acres of crosses

or on the walls of monuments in France

the endless names engraved.

Call it an old sorrow in every family, the

faded yellow photo of an unremembered man

who “fell” we say,

where there is no rising.

and only then,

when  energies are spent,

when everything is smashed to rubble,

then think of peace.

Peace is the state of  nations

after  all has gone,

ex nihilo,

a nothingness not easily achieved.