Why do you wish so much pain upon me, that your house be set against mine. Where be it said in this time most modern, that we must war against each other. Or be it out of respect that we bleed for words written 4000 years past. How do we tell the dead, of why or how they died. Do we say to them that written words caused your death; words handed down from father to son. No this can not be why they died, for men make mistakes and this be true. How can we say no mistake was made; before a pen in hand yet taken.
So in tablets of stone letters where written. But letters change as do the words. Down through the ages language not spoken, for no ear lives from that time now past. Can we really be this sure enough to send men to their death over words not heard as ions passed.
Perhaps then we should talk before we begin again to war upon each other. In your house or be it mine; would breaking bread be not better. For if in this one act of kindness shown, would our hands be the hand which will stay the slaughter. Would not these words of peace be greater gift given; from a father to his son...
So in tablets of stone letters where written. But letters change as do the words. Down through the ages language not spoken, for no ear lives from that time now past. Can we really be this sure enough to send men to their death over words not heard as ions passed.
Perhaps then we should talk before we begin again to war upon each other. In your house or be it mine; would breaking bread be not better. For if in this one act of kindness shown, would our hands be the hand which will stay the slaughter. Would not these words of peace be greater gift given; from a father to his son...
© 2008 Words the Windows to the Soul
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