Curfew

Marion Strobel

The single voice, the curfew no one heeds,
Echoes within the house where soldiers swore,
Along the street that death was aiming for
The sound of fighting gradually recedes.

But in the house the stubborn voice once more,
Warm on the trigger of the waiting gun,
Attempts to sing of peace. The setting sun,
Beneficent to relics left by war,

Shines on the long street empty of everything,
Shines in the room splattered with recent lead,
Upon the broken stair where something bled
The single voice once more attempts to sing

Of love, of peace, of someone comforted-
It winds about itself, its wounds are deep-
With bandaged throat it sings of peace, of sleep.
The sun upon the banister is red.