One day we will meet
on the other side of the twilight of the gods,
or the gods we thought we were.
We will sit under an ancient pine,
looking out on the wheat and wildflowers
where once was a bloody plane strewn with our brother's bodies.
We will speak in quiet tones in the smoke of our fire,
and never our hearts will tremble.
We will then be mild men in the manner of our father,
our arms unscarred, our minds untroubled.
We will have forgotten the battles and blood,
only a whisper in the wheat.
The sons of god will lay down their threshing tools
to hail us in a greeting:
'It is finished!’
And the beauty of it will bring tears to our eyes.