Whispers of Peace

In trenches deep and foxholes grim,
Where hope grows faint and light grows dim,
A whisper stirs, so soft, so low,
Of peace that war cannot know.

It drifts across the no man’s land,
Where poppies bloom in blood-soaked sand,
A gentle breeze that carries dreams,
Of life beyond these battle schemes.

The whisper touches weary hearts,
Of soldiers torn by war’s dark arts,
It speaks of home, of love’s embrace,
Of children’s laughter, gentle grace.

It echoes in the silence between,
The thunderous roars of war’s machine,
A reminder of humanity,
That lingers in each enemy.

The whisper grows with every life,
Cut short by bullet, bomb, or knife,
It carries sorrow, carries pain,
Of those who’ll never speak again.

In capitals where leaders preach,
Of glory that’s beyond their reach,
The whisper rises, soft but clear,
“What cost this victory so dear?”

It floats above the graveyards vast,
Where futures lie entombed in past,
And mothers weep for sons now gone,
Their whispers join the growing song.

The anthem swells with every tear,
Shed for the lost, the far, the near,
It carries hope on fragile wings,
That peace might grow from suffering.

So listen close, amid the din,
Of propaganda’s ceaseless spin,
For in the whisper, truth resides,
That war destroys while peace provides.

Let whispers grow to shouts of might,
That drown the call to arms and fight,
Till swords are stilled and plowshares reign,
And peace at last breaks war’s dark chain.

For in the end, when all is said,
When fields lie fallow with the dead,
The whispers of peace will still remain,
To heal our world of war’s long pain.