I heard the sabers rattling
In digital space last night,
The same sabers I heard in ’90 and ’03.
The bladesmiths deftly forged their words
Hard as metal and plunged
Them into the furnace of fear
To be shaped and tempered into the fine point
That is called war.
Today I listen for the words
Of prophets rising above the din of sabers,
Their words clear and clean and true
Forged in the furnace of their souls
Shaped and honed by a justice
Crafted with eyes wide open.
I summon the prophet
Who lives in the furnace of my own soul: