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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.

	the broken doll
	in a huge smile

	after the big bang -
	sweet roses can do nothing
	to a dead lover


	A Gun and a Rose

	Gun is a gun and rose is a rose.
	The first is to kill, the other is to scent.
	If I must pick one, I'll choose the latter
	For I can easily give it to my lover.


	Lines and Angles of My Town

	As a child, I walk
	in my slippers sod with lines
	and angles
	of my town, sleepless
	and full of smokes-
	oft drizzling
	down my thought, coating it
	in a multi-
	cultural haze.

	I am the child
	of a roseate womb
	and my breath smells milk,
	but I wear guns-
	cold like ice.

	I wonder if
	poetry can calm
	the shivers
	of blood
	in my tiny hands.


	Space between Us

	Ev'ry verse of your breath that lives inside the sacred stone
	remarkably resounds in my hollowed heart, only to decipher
	not my faith, but the enigmas on how to ebb from its dawn.
	I stride back to my history, the one where you would never

	loom on its dreadful disciplines, and let bedazzled me swing
	as if by chic choice the snappy sound of gloaming that would
	numb my saint, the one I plucked out from you- believing.
	Did I not love you in your way, or in many ways that I could?

	Oh, peace in all its form is the absence of space between us!
	Leaving like fog is your option, which to a morning romance
	I can't compare, but maybe to an autumn leaf in such a rush,
	masterly losing its fruition from a life in the distrustful dance

	of a blue breeze, insinuating itself into your body and mind.
	Sorry, not the least we can do, and you know this is so true;
	tame me with patience, let not your gauntlet of ire be mine.
	Unlace your dignified dignity, so that I may see it in me too.

	Gone are the days- the flipping of us into the river of time.
	Ah, if you wore my skin that speaks my tongue, you'd better
	feel much like a budding poet, worthy of a poem in rhyme;
	fill me with a reasonable reason, not with a superbia, father!


	walk in my sandals

	there were

	painting images
	at the back of my head
	and everyday

	I plucked them out
	to share, yet
	I couldn't find you

	neither your shadow
	that I departed for the desert
	and took refuge

	in the shivers
	of my sandals

— Ernesto P. Santiago


All Poems Submitted to the Contest


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