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Gift

For months,

or is it years,

I have carefully,

I have silently prayed to the Creator to spare

            the ocean’s shells;

for the sake of one lovely shell, I’ve prayed,

do not let the earth be destroyed.

 

For months,

or is it years,

I have prayed carefully,

I have prayed silently to the Creator to spare

            the earth’s blossoms;

for the sake of a single rose, I’ve prayed,

do not let the earth be destroyed.

 

For months,

or is it years,

I have carefully prayed,

I have silently prayed to the Creator to spare

            the earth’s birds;

for the sake of one gray sparrow’s song,

I’ve prayed,

do not let the earth be destroyed.

 

And for all those months of all those years,

since an August day in faraway Japan,

I’ve prayed for shells and roses and birds’ song

and hid,

in some deep, sorrowing place no light could reach,

hid,

because I could not bear to see such a secret sorrow,

hid

the image of a baby’s ear,

curved, soft,

not as hard as an ocean’s shell – a baby’s ear –

no protection at all – a baby’s ear –

against the wind of a nuclear holocaust.

 

Hid the image of a child’s fingers curved

            around an adult’s hand,

trusting that the adult would take the child

            safely across a busy street;

a child’s fingers,

stronger than the petals of a rose,

but not strong enough to ward off the vaporizing

            heat of a man-made sun.

 

Hid,

for thirty-seven years,

the sound of children’s laughter

caught in a blinding blast;

laughter? – no protection at all against

            a nuclear bomb.

The shell,

the rose,

the bird’s song –

deliberate disguises to hide

                                                the babies,

                                                the toddlers,

                                                the children

from the unspeakable.

 

No wonder we have terrors in our nights,

hiding a planet’s extinction in our dreams;

no wonder we wake exhausted at dawns,

unable to comprehend an end –

not just of Mozart’s melodies but –

or ring-around-a-rosy;

unable to comprehend

and then,

unable to grieve an end to the Mona Lisa as well as

            hide-and-seek.

 

Symphony, rock musician,

Michelangelo and motorcycle racing,

jungle, Antarctica,

beloveds,

and enemies

all changed to something we cannot glimpse,

nor dare to.

 


So,

I have prayed for four hundred and forty-four

            months

for shells and blossoms and birds

and only yesterday was strong enough to pray for

            all the little ones.

 

We too are the little ones,

asked to protect children from more than busy streets.

 

We are called,

we are chosen to spread the word;

we are chosen,

we are called to bring the peace.

 

Amen

 

 

 


Nuclear Files

the International Fellowship of Reconciliation

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