Paper Cranes

Poetry for Peace Contest

The Poetry for Peace contest was held from 15 September until 14 October 2011. The winners were anounced at a ceremony at UN headquarters in New York.

Below is one of the contest entries.



    Good morning, baker!
"Hi, baker! U.S. is hanging us in a cross."
My choice was to pray. Your choice was to make of me a prey.
A fleet of paper airplanes and paper boats cannot win a war.
There's no retirement for unarmed soldiers. Love is weapon of mass construction.
The first war did not end, for its clenched fists. The second war was over in a second.
The cold war made us older, but not wiser.
Will be there a third war, based on a thirsty world?
Will be there hundreds of wars and more, based on the hunger?
Cherry, Chernobyl, how do you spell love in your hometown?
Dollars, jewells and pearls, the anti-matter. Thousands of dolls and toys were melted.
In the face of the dime, it's written "hero", and on its other side it's hidden "shame".
If money could grow on trees, would they take care of Nature?
Don't blame the nuclear fuel rods. The guilt is of those who built the Saddest Song,
The Unsung, for the silence of the thirsty lungs. The church was ill.
A solar wind has swept marble stones, well-screwed to the ground.
How long it takes for a bell to ring its last breath?
Where is the music of enemy? The wood of the Family of Strings has turned into ashes!
The axes of Middle Age are the atoms of Idols' Age. August's anguish is a waste.
A pleasant summer, at breakfast and at noon, became a plea for tears to drink.




    Day Five, Day Eight
I wish I could taste the smell of Day Five, the spirit of Day Eight, the days before the fire.
We were fine when Sins were only Five. But Dumont, Wright brothers and Einstein,
Brought us Pride, and Wrath, to fly, and to push to death, our brothers like rats.
Not just in the cold, not just without wheat, but at a kindergarten, turned into desert.
Each drop of blood became a grain, of those who took the A-bomb train.
When so-called sub-race won the race, of hundred metters dash,
I went happy for what happened, and we all won ice cream, olympic torch shaped.
One land won the nuclear race, 	and all the world has lost its pace, big wasted apples.
Cremate is crime, when before one's time. Where were you in days of bombs?
In your mother's womb, or walking in circles, looking for water on the moon?
In the instant that we prayed, we tried to smile to the flash, but the camera was
Miles away. Its evil work, the flesh to wound. A phantomgraph, the soul to touch.
Napalm, snipers, to nephews appaling. A lesson never learnt.
One morning, the last, of students, the best. That morning, they were not in school.
Prepare a good meal, the best, not the last, to your enemy, to push to end the war.
A piece of bread. A bit of peace to breathe. And pity for the little ones.
You showed me the terror, I showed you the mirror. The last air-raid brought us first aid.
Classmates, when make a rhyme, look for a better word, that may sound fine, not like
The A-bomb's sound, which is not a hymn, that made U.S. smile and made us cry.




    Crosswords
What does it mean to you the word "Cross"?
Missiles are time machines. Into Fossils, by them, are turned, our chins. A world loss.
Burialcracy, the dark art of governate , only to promote death, out of own limits.
People's life is just a vote. A mandate is its profits. Snow is now ash.
Our fate was the same of the jewish. Fetuses damaged by abuses, war wishes.
Digging tunnels to the air-raid shelters was a blessing. How many lives one could save
And now are dancing? It doesn't matter if it's not Chanel what you're dressing.
The most precious gift of nature it's the coloured skin over a soul that's pure.
Sirens were sound only to warn the soul, that the body would die anyway.
The name of the dead is a road of the unending lyrics of an oniric song.
The only torture that should be permitted is the reading in full, to the chiefs of the States
Engaged in wars, of the A-bomb survivors testimonials, by the survivors themselves.
Then, all those chiefs would be hijacked to Japan, a must-see visit to the Sunrise.
The Sun is a kind of A-bomb, but He is where He should be.
The A-bomb is a kind of womb, but its son is not the sun, its warmth and life-birth.
Huge waves of fire, in the past. Huge waves of water, live broadcast.
From the caves to the wireless, two thousand and fifty three atoms to test.
Room for graves to the senseless.  Tutu, Desmond is planting trees in Homs.
A new day, the youth will grow up like the press, to save each other.
Nowadays, everybody knows how to press the save icon,
As the pilot of the bomber twenty-nine, knew well how to do to save none.
The score of anti-olympic medals, melted medals in the losers' chest,
From the first to the last shot of judges, melted nuclear fuel rods and sick eagles badges.
Two snakes of steel inoculated, the soil of brave people of Japan,
Two sisters, thin and tall. The boil at the grave. Purple of a Man,
Hated by his earnings and his expensive clock. An eagle sick, I still hear the same cries,
Since nineteen forty five have died. Price of worthy lives. None on feet, diameter miles.


— Ricardo R. Jesus
 

 


All Poems Submitted to the Contest

 

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