In a paradise of dreaming fields,
walking the inner path of righteous purpose,
pores open along the mother’s young, incubating body,
skin fearlessly drinking the living warmth of the sun’s rays.

Protecting the child, the idea, the seed of the future
swathed in white, rose-petaled linen.
In the silence of her steps that barely
disturb the dust of this sterile road,
memories of their atrocities are not far behind.

When the holy house on the hill comes into view
she checks over her shoulder,
for the shouts and the cries of the innocent,
the bombs and the wails of the dying still echo—
all the horrors of the world persist.
The soul of humanity at risk of being lost,
severed by a fear-hunger feeding upon itself,
the world at war but the child in her arms still sleeps.

The abyss is insurmountable, measureless
a yawning vacancy of indifference swallowing all,
everything dances momentarily upon its lips.
Nothing is safe, only delayed in its ingestion.

She sets the child down on the edge,
carves its name into the earthen flesh of human consciousness.
Save this dream blossoming upon the graves of war!
Knowing the cost, knowing the risk,
she steps forward knowing that all
might change for the sake of belief—
FREEDOM.

White roses dissipate,
an ethereal fire escapes the darkness.