Civil War Poem by Louie Vizcarra

Life on the farm was monotonous
I stayed inside and never lied
life was simple and there was plenty to eat
in a lonely, out of the way village
far from the outside world.
Conservatives and liberals-
I had never heard the words in my youth
but when armed men stormed my village
burned my life to the ground and shot my family
conscripted service was the price for my life.
Immediately life was like a raging river
as civil war destroyed life at the turn of the century.
I was reduced to
diving into ditches as mortars blasted and blackened the earth
bodies and body parts rained from the sky
and I was soaked by dirt turned to mud by lakes of blood
as each side relentlessly hacked away the other, fighting for an inch of ground
neither side giving way.
Days and months turned into years
cannon balls and mortars shelled the countryside beyond recognition
every green thing, every beautiful thing was destroyed by fire
lush pastures and gardens were turned into battlefields and graveyards.
Armies controlled cities and rebel militias ravaged the countryside
martial law meant everyone was a foe and shot on sight.
A life was spent for a cause I knew nothing of
and bitterness began to consume me, as I only fought for my survival
not for a flag or any political ideology
but following orders from generals with an agenda
all this disaster being meaningless to me.
My bare face grew a black beard which turned gray
and I remembered my youth and my family
in the secluded village deep in the jungle.
An old man with a hunched back holding a heavy rifle, I looked up
I saw a raindropp fall from the sky to my feet
soak into the ground
and I watched as a small green shoot
poked up from beneath the soot and ashes
took root and grew to be a towering tree
the only shred of life in the entire country
the only green thing against a background of burnt earth.
All men looked to the tree confused
bullets stopped firing, shells stopped falling
and soldiers began to remember the way of life of long before.
Throwing down their rifles, city men melted the metal of their rifles and made plows
rebel militias came down from the hills
animals became men again,
fathers and farmers
they joined hands and a city was built around the tree, the sign of a new age
a city was made, civilization flourished, and
I returned to my village deep in the jungle
peace reigned, and no man traded plow for rifle ever again.