The price of peace is held in life, one hand grasping that value dear, the movement of a hope too far to trust it to the men we fear. Peace moves above, at times below in wafts of secret wonder, grasping at songs, the mellow yarns that masquerade the squander. Peace never was attached to death, to those who death proclaim as goal, even when hopes, their cunning stealth makes them intractable, savage and bold. Peace is in life that may continue rolling, in yours and mine and in the child who will rejoice with tears in knowing the bitterness that kept him from the wild. How did they think a zealous death would carry victory in its banner? That victory would lead to peace, to health that may be shared in a sweet manner? Death is not life that it may draw tranquillity and ease, truest delight. It is a lie for those who feel that awe will open doors to goodness bright. I do not seek the peace that settles all in forceful, ponderous acclamations, in promises made in fury and in scorn in death wished for, longed for obsessions.