Oh, those mighty guns… Those great weapons that can be trained on others and that can destroy and harm and burn. And those vast and impenetrable fortresses we build to defend ourselves from incoming threats and landing fire. A few decades ago, a place where the young soldier is stationed, fighting against the barbarism of actual fascism (as distinct from the virtual, ubiquitous kind). A place locked off, and that holds closely guarded secrets. A place from where the coast is watched with anxious eyes and that looks out to be the first to spot terrifying nightmares actualised…
Today a place where ice-cream eating kids take tours with their comfy families. Today a place where guides explain he history for armchair generals and TV dinner archaeologists.
And the guns fall silent and the wars end – even, as monstrous as that may seem, to fade and be forgotten along with all its lessons.
And the ice cream eating kids too, will go the way of war… in conflict or at peace, either way, they will go.
And all of it – all of it together – are just canvases for wildflowers.
Wild flowers – fragile, tiny, dainty – will yet feast on the bones of our mightiest abstractions and loftiest edifices.