When The Trumpet Is Blown Poem by Mystic Qalandar

War will close itself
when the trumpet sounds over Trump—
not merely a man,
but a mountain of clamor,
an age of restless tongues.

Not by the sword will it finish,
nor by treaties signed in trembling hands,
but by a sound—
ancient as the first exhalation,
fierce as the final truth.

Who will lift that horn?
Not kings drunk on dominion,
nor multitudes lost in echo,
but silence, ripened into command—
a decree from The Peace.

Not heard by ears alone:
hearts are the first to shudder,
veils fall like autumn leaves,
and the mirrors of men
refuse to lie.

Over towers of pride it passes,
over names etched in fleeting stone,
over the dream of permanence—
resting at last on self-crowned certainty.

Then war closes—
not slain,
but dissolved,
as shadows vanish.

when the sun remembers its own face.
No victor remains,
no vanquished weeps—
only a vast and holy clearing
where dust remembers light,
and breath returns to the One who gave it.

MyKoul