Peace

Workmanship crafted into perfection,
a vast, deadly weakness.

Countless races bargin for such a treasure,
they will die for it.

The homeless use it for communication to God,
oh, such pity enter one's heart.

A home filled with happiness,
will feel the venom of jelousy of one's siblings.

Are we to ever caress the joys of Peace?

Our forefathers could not,
are we going to find that inner strength past generations could not find?

An encirclement of three lines of life.

Our birth,
being the purest and yet shortest line.

Our lives,
being the most trialsome, the longest line.

Our death,
darkend by doubt and mysteries, yet tracing one more short line.

Never seek it,
often rewards are not found.

Never will there be only good,
there must be a balance.

Peace,
a wonderful symbol,
a beautiful melody.

'Tis buried,
within the memories of Mother Nature.