War. . .

I lay on the gleahed. sand,
And I gazed on its glittering irridescence.
I thought of my friend the pacifist,
His slashing condemnation of war.
I thought of the needless horror, brutality,
Bodies blasted and maimed, brains shattered,
Nations ruined, pillage, that spectral half-brother
To grim old Mars—starvation,
Weeping women . . .
How illogical . . .
There were darker specks in the scintillating mass,
Decayed organic matter perhaps . .
I murmured the monosyllable—"War."
"War! There has always been War,"
The voice of the sand replied.
"I was young and joyed in life,
"We lived at peace with the world.
"We lived and loved on the gleaming beach—
"But the tribe down the coast waxed fat.
"One dawn
"Saw their war canoes in the stream.
"We fought for our homes—in the press
"Of gleaming, struggling, writhing flesh I killed,
"Fierce joy of killing ....
"Then suddenly
"Blinding light—
"Searing pain—
"And numbness—dim. dull, deep oblivion.
"War! There will always be War."
I thought of my friend the pacifist.
Vain mouthings—empty purposeless
Condemnation of destiny.
Puny man stopping with his welloiled tongue
The incontrovertible swing of the infinite.
Changing the nature of the whole human animal.
The sun beat down on my back—
The evanescent sparkle of the sand
Formed papilionaeous patternings.
The voice of the everlasting sea:
"War! There will always be War."

—Pereius.