. . .
Few vices to the imagination, the world has become poor;
There is no more mankind, just men, weak and strong.
The ornate call for peace, much blood on nature’s floor;
The endless fight for class, now is why all is wrong.
The world would be so gold, were men just rich or poor,
Were men just male or female, but then we’re blank and cold.
Crushed heritages, lost histories, so much truth out the door
As decrees without high regard, unlaw and divide, now are told.
Men and beasts alike, doom for the world order;
So peace comes, so you don’t have to wonder.
Harmony in the universe, mankind not set aside;
We are one with the stars, so let’s forever stride.
Endure, envoys of truce, till the new world like rain falls,
Till like new Sun it shines from all the hills and climes;
And the peace of the Earth becomes for us all,
The last triumph, that allays all times.
M. V. Echa
— For every victim of war, violence, and social discrimination.
Author’s Note: “… We live in a precarious world and man is becoming an endangered species. We are barred from profitable introspection of our existence and day-to-day experiences by the urgent need to survive, by the burdening expectations others have of us and the galling standards set up by the society and cultural milieu we find ourselves.
Nevertheless, we must hold humanity in a wide embrace; we must keep listening to the whisperings of nature, for the desert winds form the beautiful barchan dunes.
Words remain our most prevailing vehicle of expression; the most effective tool for the categorization of our various and varying feelings whether love or hatred, fear or courage, pain or ecstasy etc.
Thus, we must avail ourselves the use of the power of language to get in touch with our soul, to stand in and out of our experiences, to paint on the canvas of thought the delightful portrait of our persistent reality, and to daintily spool the threads off the bobbin of knowledge.
There is miracle in writing, for which I am not indebted to my vain pride. I owe the words penned on the fragile pages of [these articles]… to the rain of reflexions that fall in due season, though not in spring.”