Heroes Poem by M. A Heathcote

Who, beyond my sporting heroes,
Beyond the relics of the past are my real heroes.
They are the pacifists who realise
There are no winners in a selfish fistfight.
Where people die every single day and night
My unsung heroes are the peacemakers
Of this tiresome world that refuses at the point of death
To shed another's blood. Bludgeon his enemy's wife.
Burn his fear-paralysed children.
In an army Red Cross hospital tent.

The belligerent with their long knives.
Hate my true hero with a passion.
They are bloodthirsty wolves who will stop at nothing.
And would happily kill their brothers and sisters.
Murder their mothers and fathers.
Destroy their temples.
Swallow themselves like a fiery demon pit snake.
Blasphemy: a child of god's name at birth,
And heap shame upon his shoulders.

But these would-be heroes would make
Even poor Sisyphus quakes in his boots.
When these villains heap profanities on their names
Toiling in the field in the dirt and twinning it to shame.
But yet they exhibit no hatred, only love.
For the common herd. Making battle-weary hearts
Out of granite boulders, a porous sponge-like material once again.
Counting dark and light souls out again tonight.