The Faces of Lions by Eric Blauer (11/10/19)
A poem inspired Veterans and 1 Chronicles 12:8, 2 Samuel 1:19-27 and Joshua 14:7-12
In honor of Veterans, men and women who will not be forgotten in the annals of eternity’s pen and the hearts and minds of patriots and the memory of our enemies.
There was a day when wars ended.
An era when country and combat were not held in dishonor, back when the shame of being a bastard was more about the father refusing to own his role than the character of the child.
But not now, evil is good and good is evil and the lock on the door is chided as the tool of fools. We live among generations that have never known a time of peace. They have been born in blood.
We also live among those who have fought battles in cities few know or care about and yet many who do, can’t utter them without remembering someone they lost in battle.
We are forbidden to have heroes in this age. The soldier no longer stands for anything or anyone when Eden is everywhere, there’s no snake in the garden and everyone is divine.
When I reflect on Scriptures like the ones that inspired this piece, I mourn not for the glory of victory or violence, but for the loss of living in a time when dying for something was possible. These are confusing times when Nazis are neighbors and Hitler has been resurrected from the dead but the Holocaust is denied.
May God send us Eagles and Lions before we are convinced we don’t need saving.
It is to this world…I write.
They have long since forgotten,
that night was the domain
of their destructions,
and now light,
drives no shadows away.
We have no oil for shields,
or stone for blade,
No song sung for eagles,
and the Lion’s mane is shorn.
Giants hold our homes in the hills,
the Mountain heights are dry,
no one weeps for warriors,
when Apollyon’s name is changed
There are no battles to fight,
when heroes are villains,
and enemies the valiant,
when honor is suspect,
and valor is a four-letter word.
There’s no blood on our heights,
no beauty sacrificed for glory,
for Heroes aren’t slain on sofas,
and wars are not waged on personal days.
The mighty are forgotten,
tell it not in Kandahar,
proclaim it not in the streets of Fallujah,
lest the daughters of al-Qaeda be glad,
and the children of ISIS rejoice.
Terror is the plastic-faced masquerade of evil,
prowling the nations from door to door,
unhindered with the keys of the cities,
when the faces of Lions are no more.