There’s a figure here in no man’s land,
Always present, and forever at hand,
Unafraid of the cratered haze,
Understands our difficult days.
Knows riots and howls and the lives of rubble,
Knows the grimy shadows and the pits of trouble,
Well acquainted with our ruined lands,
A gritty saviour with mud-spattered hands.
Barbed wire faith, not about religion,
Not a shiny show on your television,
There in the mix of the mad and mundane,
In the riddled remains, in the scar strewn stains.
This barbed wire faith adorned with thorns,
On the minefields and the manicured lawns.
In the lives of the lovers and the fighters too,
In the young and the old and the you-know-who.
The wounds of war, of love and hurt,
A world of bruises dying in the dirt.
Plans and strategies ripped apart,
The line running through every human heart.
Intentions foiled and battles lost,
A debt too great for us to pay the cost,
That’s why this battle-hardened seer
Hangs nailed upon the barbed wire here.
Too profound to barely mention,
He holds all this in ragged tension,
Carrying the weight of this war-torn planet,
In hands that shaped and first began it.
Hands of peace with war-torn holes,
Torn for eternity’s restless souls.
Holding on, below and above,
The bearer of this barbed wire love.