Below is one of the contest entries.
A FOOL'S HOPE He cannot pass anymore, Not today, for we cannot see the bottom of the wretched ones bag, It spans and withers into nothingness, so we fear, we resolve, He must not pass again pass. Not today, not the afterdays that endure. He holds out promises of fulfillment, he lays it out, He tells us lies and caresses our greed and pride but we know, We feel it for our hearts the depth of his deceit and clout. Echoing deeply within our thoughts, We know, this is the one place we mustn't see any closer, The one barren land that holds out to us a stench of waste, ill use and gore. He inspires us and romances our greed, our hearts ignored and apart. He creates an illusion of this "place", more laid out, green and near. Then we restlessly seek its promises but there is nothing there. And our spirits soaked by our pride. We set out, and sourgone to this desolate land. Something evil there gave off hatred and endless teeth grinding. The wretched one seeks the world of men to a fall and burn to the ground. Those without swords shall die upon them with only wonder in their minds. Those who cling to misery left of life must wait for old age and usage, It shall becloud them and set their eyes blind. Memories and aspiration of love, respect, tolerance long set upon the grind. Here I am bound to my grief and blame After a long linger of time, under the fading trees, shrew and old "The wretched one shall make corpses of us all a true litter of shame" By swift acceptance or by slow decay of time this knowledge we shall hold. All turned to vain ambition, a deep breath before the plunge. When there was no warmth left in the sun the city fells silent and sludge, "Rose called peace" rescind from your chill and recoil, bloom without fear. Today we long to see your beauty. Today we are ready. Today we fight against war, Today we shall smote his ruin of tears Let "writhe" have a take for her amusement and fiddle. We defend our keep behind these walls of love, understanding and gloss. We shall outlast the wretched one, he hits the innocent and guilty the same. I say this for peace I shall have no shame amidst my ancestors. The power of death shall end for this I see late but I see all the same. Now men must reign as once before, in the claim of peace and kites. They say it's all a fools' hope, but it is hope all the same. I sigh here and the last words of peace are for you, My brethren, my dew.
— Ugo Love
All Poems Submitted to the Contest