David Wood (07 April 1950 / London)
It's never the hard won battle,
Or the glorious victory
But the slender slim fingered hand
That holds the pen that signs the paper.
The Golden Eagle, those talons,
That dug into the flesh of the enemy
Was only momentary, a distant nightmare
Of sleepless nights, sweating, muttering.
Of Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome.
Twitching jerky movements that haunts
Every moment awake with sweaty dread.
The anti-depressants rattling inside.
Now only the slim fingers that signed the paper
That stopped the fighting, that ends the war.
Those fingers never twitched in anger
Never touched other human flesh or a gun.
Fingers now holding the pen resting on the paper.
Flowing ink, not rifles firing bullets,
That stopped the fight. Those fingers
From small weak sloping shoulders
That fails to find any tears to shed.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.