Meditation on War

When we play our games of swordsmanship,
Conscious of the rules to keep us safe,
Can we imagine the reality
Of actually fighting for our lives,
Striking blows in earnest, trying to kill,
To shove cold steel into another's chest,
Releasing thus the bitter flow of blood,
Letting life out of an enemy,
And knowing that his death is on your head?
We call ourselves, both warriors and knights
In imitation of our ancestors,
Who trained for war in deadly seriousness,
Knowing that to fail was to lose all
That they held dear, and ever hoped to gain
Mindful that a random arrow shot
Could cancel out their training and their skill,
Might leave them crippled, maimed, or helpless while
Their loved ones suffered ruin and rapine.
I find it difficult to write of war
For those who fight to die and rise again
For entertainment's sake, a comic sport
All done in fun, like any other game
That does not bear a price that's paid in blood.
I'll sing of love and matters of the heart,
Write comic verse about our knightly games,
Play melodies about our pageantry,
But never call it war that does not stink
Of death, destruction, corpses in the sun.
To do so honors not the memory
Of those who died to grant us this, our peace,
In which we play our games of Chivalry.