And the boy Said (inspired by Walt Whitman)

And the boy said
“What are those marks, father,
Which stain the walls so?”
What might I say to him;
That they are the faint traces
Of all the blood
Which has ever been spilled
In all the crimes
Which have ever been committed
And all the wars
Which man has visited on man;
That they are a sign to us
Of all the world’s wickedness and guilt,
Stored in vast windowless halls
In readiness to overwhelm sinners
Grown swollen and slow in their sinning;
That they are the vanguard shadows
Of the final disease
Which will engulf us all
And leave the land
To creatures scavenging for carrion?

Yet, would that I might tell the boy
“Boy, those ragged-edged marks
May be washed away,
Just as tyrants and dictators
In their lust for blood,
And those who would kill on a whim
May be resisted and turned back,
Whimpering and contrite;
Just as atonement, guilt’s antidote,
May be mustered and let loose;
Just as illness too, dear child,
May be quarantined for ever,
So that you and I
May be gently led by mere age
To the mystery which awaits us”.