The Stories We Fight Far Afield

I can’t argue Nabka. They’ve a story. 
I can’t argue the story. It’s a sad story 
And I wish it weren’t the story the
World knows.  A point made.  

And our story. A millennium old story. 
Doesn’t matter. They’ve got a story.
And we’re the villains. It’s an old story.
Older than theirs; not that all the 

Theys care. Deals that might have
Worked, slipped away.  Or were
Pushed away….victory and the story
Matter more than the peace.

The bloodier the victory the greater
The satisfaction. After all they argued
That they, us, did much harm to them. No deal
Which might dilute the story

The ancient story that we are their
Theys.  And they are the new us. And 
True justice demands blood,
No deal.  Not peace only their

Story’s perfect justice and the interloper
Either expelled, enslaved, massacred.
Our old story as the fit ending to
Their new story. 

I hate our story: too much sorrow. 
But it is the story we have even if
They think our story is only 
Another lying hoax. 

I’m sorry about their story, and,
If I could, I’d rewrite it, but I can’t. Each
Deal lost if had been gained
Would have recast the story. 

Which side erred?  Do I know? Can
I know? Would it matter were I
To know? No.  But when do we 
Stop the noes and turn to

A yes that ends this? What would
That take?  Please God. Give us all 
Some Yes. I don’t think the story-tellers
Can say yes without your help.  

Whatever dear God that help
May be.  

Protect the innocent; shield the
Valiant. Make the peace for
Which we seem unable. Make
The peace on earth as it is
In heaven.