"Formerly he had feared the end.
He had twice experienced that terribly tormenting fear
of death—the end—but now he no longer
understood that fear."
- War and Peace (Book Twelve, Chapter XVI) by Leo Tolstoy
Then I will plant a garden
where the barricades once stood,
and feed the earth with what remains
of all that called itself good.
I’ll leave a candle in the window,
a little bread beside the door,
and ask the ones who lost the most
what we were burning for.
For every rose they tried to sever,
a thousand roots will twist below.
For every seed they buried under,
a thousand more will learn to grow.
Let the gilded towers tremble,
let the painted kingdoms fall.
No crown can hold the morning,
no wall can keep it all.
And if the fire takes the orchard,
if the smoke obscures the sky,
we’ll be the hands that shelter seedlings,
we’ll be the reason they survive.
No more kneeling to the vultures,
no more feeding what devours.
We’ll take the weapons from the wicked
and give the wounded back their flowers.
For the snake, we’ll leave no kingdom.
For the pig, no sacred throne.
For the monkey dressed in silver,
we’ll remind him flesh is bone.
But when the flames have lost their hunger,
when the embers turn to rain,
we must build something worth the ashes,
or we’ll light the match again.
So let it burn — the greed, the fear,
the lies that kept us small.
But save the hands that plant tomorrow,
and leave a place for all.
And when the last red coal goes dark,
when the smoke gives way to blue,
may we find the world worth saving
is the one we make anew.
