there was a story about a baby.
a very young child.
a boy.
and he slept in a crib _
a crib made of jasmine
and clay.
the baby slept in the dreams
of dreaming,
and smelled the jasmine rise.
his dreams were pure.
a war arose around him. and
he was not aware. it is the
way with war. the baby did
not fuss for the war even though
it was all around him, waged in
the streets and the valley below.
no rage arose in his heart.
and the cool of his touch
could have ended the rape
in the streets. still he slept.
he remained unaware until
the last soldier fell. and the
baby was alone in the crib
made of jasmine and clay,
unaware that the world had
died around him.
such is the way with peace.
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