Massacre Of Misunderstanding Poem by Michael Ardizzone

So embattled with the night
we may forget that nature
(a caressing arm not yet weakened
by the bewitching brew, technology)
would give us a thousand
drops of water for each
inch of this hate we love so much.

We yell so ears have company
so minds need not dwell
on what waits within.

We encase ourselves in pleasures
of the eye and finger
so thoroughly and constantly
that the air seems profane
and sweat can no longer
push two lovers together.

We continue so that
some day we may forget
these wars that we fight
and then,
perhaps
we'll no longer be fighting them.

We'll be the uncounted casualties
in a massacre of misunderstanding.