I see your steel: killers, dictators,
I know how it bites the flesh.
But do not rest on your laurels yet, lord,
for I have tasted the pacifist’s sword.
Your swords may cut flesh and end life,
but the pacifist’s sword is a paintbrush,
inspiring the weak and disheartened,
colours that make the masses enlightened.
Your bullets can kill me from miles away,
but the pacifist’s sword is a pen in its pot:
Informing millions who can then overthrow,
writing the stories our fathers know.
Your missiles will kill us, I know this is true,
but the pacifist’s sword is a first aid kit
ready to save the lives you once ended.
Immune are those the pacifists defended.
You sceptre may rule us, hold us all cowed,
but the pacifist’s sword is an idea, a theory.
We know that you cannot kill us all,
and with knowledge we can never fall.