Before the bomb exploded, before my own last breath,
The terrorist in bomber’s vest pinned a poem to his chest.
A poem that foresaw my death.  

Can I read your poem?  Can we conceive of what you’d pen?
Did you write of anger? Or pain, or fear or when
your own father went to war, or his father before him?

I might think, some riotous spirit you’d invoke,
a thing of fury, envy, rage.
But rather, you might fill the page
with every pain of every age
a memoir of a stoic sage.

And this great choice before you,
Do you see it as a chance to free your heart, to free your mind
your soul reborn, your choice resigned, your one last final stance?

“Do they not see?”  You wonder, “that I’m not scared to die?”
“That all my wrath, all my worth, this choice will amplify?”  

You’d ask how kings and lords who dine,
who themselves drew the battle-line,
in restaurants, sipping sparkling wine,
now sermonize and opine
your life and mine should intertwine.