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Rainproof, fireproof,
bulletproof
But not fool proof; not
bombproof.
Empty now as the soldiers march through
Boulevards deserted where
lilacs once grew
Desecration where once was a
beautiful view.
Ravaged – not for the first time; perhaps not for the last
Although many thought War was
long gone, long past,
Not lurking in shadows for the
buglers’ next blast.
Regroup! Re-assemble! Soldiers Rest Up and Return!
Let strife loose again! Once
again nurture sturm
For which hustlers and
armourers and charlatans yearn.
And that house with the red roof sees a new generation weep
As not for the first time has
War marched down that street
Where not for the last time
innocents find a last, blood-soaked sleep.
Centuries pass and that house with its pretty incarnadine roof is so
admired
By tourists seduced by blue
skies, plazas and pretty church spires.
But an indifferent sun also shines on
cruelty, evil and marching empires.
Over and again Europe’s streets ring to pitched sounds
of battle.
From antiquities’
‘heroes’ seizing land, slaves and chattels
To modern
day Goths killing folk just like cattle.
That house with the red roof has seen it all:
Seen its heavy red tiles hurled down,
forcing warriors to stall
Their
attacks, and defenders quaking behind its pretty white walls.
Terracotta - pure clay – pure baked earth – pure rock
residue
With nothing living to pollute tiles of pretty iron-red hue -
Iron-red like blood. But terracotta's just
dust God never blew life into.
And all over the world, everywhere where there’s man
Are homes with red roofs; tranquil and safe but for the men who still plan
To fight for Earth’s treasures howsoever they can.
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