I am listening to a CD called “Prayer For Peace.”

It is a compilation of Native American Music.

I think, how can a people so ill-treated,

nearly annihilated in their own land,

still manage to create such rich and beautiful music,

dedicated to peace within us all,

and peace on earth for us all.

 

The high smooth pitch of the flute,

replaces the loud blaring blast of the gun.

 

The deep echo beating of the drum

drowns out the exploding bang of the bomb.

 

The wail scale of the guitar

overshadows the wails of grieving mothers.

 

The ethereal timbre of the violin

squeezes anger into acceptance.

 

The soothing  resonance of the cello

reaches into the deaf ears of rulers.

 

The trumpets pierce the hate

and the trombones ring out prejudice.

 

The melodic tinkling of the piano

trickles like the first spring waterfall.

 

The soft harmony of children’s voices

drowns the loud cries of attack.

 

The bloodstained steel of the silver sword

melts into puddles reflecting rays of sunlight.

 

If you listen in the silence you can hear

the sun rising over the meadow,

the corn breaking through the soil,

the flower opening its petals to the sky,

the spider weaving its web,

the fawn lifting to its feet,

the kitten being licked clean.

 

When there is music everywhere,

the composers are the visionaries,

the poets are the leaders,

the painters are the generals,

the children are the keepers of truth,

the only hunger is felt before breakfast,

the only food grown is organic,

the only rifles bought are by antique collectors,

the only songs sung are songs of peace,

the only books written are books of love,

the only stories told are tales of hope,

there is no hell on earth,

heaven is in a baby’s eyes.

 

 Dennis Wayne Bressack

Woodstock, New York

Written in Flagstaff, AZ

March 4, 2003