Ceasefires rarely last,
But wonders never cease.
And I’ve heard how once on Christmas Eve
Combatants left their barbed-wired trenches
For soccer and to serenade with Stille Nacht
On that Silent Night most rare.
In the close, dark womb a baby bobs,
Eyes perceiving but feathery phantoms,
Ears hearing but way off whispers,
Not yet forming into friend or foe.
What will this child find on her arrival?
Will flares light a way to her enemy’s ruin?
Or will she brave a vigorous truce
With adversaries poised to do her harm,
And practice stark tranquility
Until all lay down their arms?