Boots on the Clover Field

They’d shun the men, had they known what war was themselves, the shunning would’ve never taken effect. A society so entrenched with the stench of death that it seems they are prepared to plunge the world with them into conflict. Had the others known, as I did, what life brings forth, would they have remained steadfast on that troublesome path?

It seems to me, that the blindfolds wrapped around their eyes are glued on with adhesive only they themselves could hope to remove, for no matter how much I tried to pull, their eyes would remain closed. But sometimes, once every ten blue moons, one of them opens their eyes, and drowns in a brown sea of a hundred more eyes that never saw the light of day.

Sad it is, I think, what such revelations would rarely have to an extent beyond the superficial nature of one’s own vision. What is that pushes some of us to see, and so many to never do the same. My eyes have always been shy of the light, but even I never accepted the blindfolds, for as much as it hurts sometimes, I would never choose to not know.

Soldiers, fighters, their boots loud and thunderous, as they march to a fate they could never keep clear, once they’re dead, bleeding and lying in a green meadow, as their blood would drench the soil, and other times holding a child, I presume their own, giggling and oblivious how unstable their fathers fate really was.

Are the blindfolds real? Do they know? Do they know the blindfold is just a mirage, placed by smooth voices, crafted by steady hands, blurred by bright lights. They are not real, my friends, but yet you do what they will.

What do you fear, what do you fear my friends. The concrete monsters have no teeth, the wooden horses can never kick. Tell me what you fear, tell me who fears you. My friends, it is all finite.

Mohammad Jaber

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