As the dogs of war howl at the gates of Iran their thoughts are never on the "after", the blood, death and the chaos, such thoughts are alien to them. Such thoughts are for that quieter breed, those that keep this world turning, those that just want to get on with their lives.
The End and the Beginning.
After every
war
someone has to clean up.
Things won’t
straighten
themselves up, after all.
Someone has to push the rubble
to the
sides of the road,
so the corpse-laden wagons can pass.
Someone has to
get mired
in scum and ashes,
sofa-springs,
splintered
glass,
and bloody rags.
Sleeves will go
ragged
from rolling them up.
Someone, broom in hand,
still
recalls how it was.
Someone listens
and nods with unsevered
head.
Wislawa Szymborska