The Cycles Poem by Nina Bej

We do all these gallant deeds
We write our own history
If I held the pen,
I'd rewrite the end.
The story concerns not us,
But something greater than what we live for.
An agony solely expressed
Via every self-inflicted death.
We live on a battlefield, love with a broken shield;
Learn to laugh only after we have healed.

The river sings its melancholy chorus,
Mourning the lives it couldn't save,
Dyed crimson with blood.
But what's done is done.
Even after all this pain, we die in vain.

We hide our past behind our guns;
An eye for an eye, life for a life;
Avenge the soul of a daughter, a son,
A sister, a brother; we slaughter each other.
Eventually, all that's left will become
The consistently rising and setting sun
For we spare the life of not a one:
Neither his daughter nor her son.
All fought for naught, none to be won.

The river sings its sorrowful dirge,
Pitying the ones that succumbed to this hate.
Tinted black with sin,
With a mission so grim…
After all this violence; finally, silence.

The plants, the trees, the animals thrive
As the river takes the bodies to their resting place
It notices peace in this new world of quiet,
Forgives and forgets the human race.
At last, with natural balance regained,
The river could write Earth's new story
Unbeknownst to it, two children remained,
Doomed to repeat history.

Sadly, the cycle is inevitable;
The history, unforgettable;
So the river still sings its sorrowful chorus,
Mourning the cycles completed before us.