Truce

In quiet fields where thunder once did roar,
Two weary camps lay breathless, side by side;
The guns fell mute, the angry smoke no more,
And whispered hopes began to swell with pride.

A white‑clad banner rose on trembling hands,
No longer stained with mud or crimson stain;
Its folds spoke softly of forgiven lands,
Where former foes might meet and walk again.

The truce was not a treaty inked in stone,
But fragile as the dawn’s first, fragile light—
A pause, a breath, a chance to leave alone
The night’s relentless, unforgiving fight.

So let us cherish this brief, gentle grace,
And guard the peace we’ve found in common space.