Poetry

Swords to Plowshares

By: Oliver Davis

Giants walk here

When the evening throws it’s mantle across the sky

The soft sound of their stirring quiets the world

 

Underneath the moon’s crawl they step

Following routines ages old

No one knows who made them

But they belong to the forest now

 

Moss spread their arms on their towering forms

Insects crowd the cracks in their limbs

Birds call their shoulders home

Bats cling to the shadowed spaces within their skin

 

Bears   Wolves   Stags

They hunt in the paths of the giants

And keep their dens in places closeby

And lullaby their young with their distant footfalls

 

Flowers   Trees   Grasses

They lie in the paths of the giants too

For their is much sun in their wake

And their young may be carried to distant lands on their feet

 

Unknown to this world are these beings true purpose

Minds of war that could kill without pause

Weapons of fire that could shred the sky

Bodies of metal that could dash the forest to dust

All of them seeking threats to an ideal long forgotten

 

Times of ideals may come and go and they have so

But the giants and the life they now bear

Carry on

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