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War From the View of Mother Earth
written by: Kerri Jesmer
The boy fell to the ground and I cradled him in my arms while his blood seeped into my pores. From the sounds above, I knew he was the first but would not be the last.
It did not matter what this one or that one alleged was the cause. It did not matter why or over what. It only mattered that my soul would be scarred as life slipped away from my children. I did not distinguish their nationality, race, religion, creed, or purpose. I cared not what sexual orientation or other distinction was given among men. For they were-are all mine. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. They return to me and then to the Father, if that be their fate.
I have seen many of their wars. And so I have cradled and received the blood to nurture new life upon my surface. But this too may be gained by the heavenly waters and the sacrifices of nature. Why must man presume to pour forth such loss?
I have no understanding of what they call important that brings about the fighting and taking of life. This greed, power, control they so desire. But the first was long ago and there are countless ages to pass before I find my rest.
How I yearn for that great and fertile garden in which the first man and woman lived. The beauty and peacefulness that existed will never again abide upon me. And so I must receive this burden, this sorrow and pain that man has made for himself and in turn for me.
Courage, I whisper to the dying boy. Peace, I offer in comfort. I am here with you, I say. It is almost over, I sob holding him close and releasing the soothing scent of which I am made. My offerings are insufficient but are all I have for him. I feel him take some of my loose soil into his hand, like a claw, lifting what life it might grab and hold on to now, at the end. I hear his quiet moan of pain. Oh, that I could remove it from him, this boy, this almost man who dies for reasons I cannot fathom. I call the wind, a gentle breeze, to blow across him and carry the scent of the flowers in this meadow where he lies dying. He catches the calming fragrance of his homeland’s bloom. A smile, slight and weak, forms on his lips. His eyes open for a moment and he calls to his mother. This act strikes my heart so hard I feel unsteady, but I must gather my strength for him. For as much as his human mother holds him in her heart, so too, do I.
His heartbeat slows and the flow of blood lessens. He is almost empty of life. I whisper, sleep, my son; you have earned your rest. And the world is quiet, if only for a moment in time, as I move on to my next child and bring with me the only peace I can offer.