War for peace

door Joukje van der Ven

Endless rows of golden wheat, deeply rooted in the French clay, bend peacefully in a gentle summer breeze. As far as the eye can see, interrupted only by one of the many cemeteries. 

Endless rows of crosses, as far as the eye can see. Endless blood shed, and at least as many tears. The French clay is steeped in pain and sorrow. 
Over a hundred years later, life goes on. The grain grows again. Though the holes in the houses are still visible, just like the holes punched in so many families. Life goes on. But so does the war.

How many more crosses are needed? How many fathers, how many sons? How much blood and how many tears?

We can bow, like the golden wheat. Turn our heads away and forget. Remain rooted in blood-soaked clay. But we can also keep fighting. Fight for peace. A War for Peace. For all those lost fathers, but especially for the sons. Our sons, and their sons. So that their wheat fields are no longer interrupted by endless rows of crosses. So that life and peace go on, in that gentle summer breeze. 

Peace. As far as the eye can see. 

Joukje van der Ven