If I Were a Poet

Bells ring over the world.
A child is born; a man is dead.
Brave and bronze,
the bells of war call men to arms,
attack, defend, the walls, the city,
heroes are born; men are dead.
Rich and gold,
the bells of victory attend
the coronation of the king;
left on the field, another king is dead.
Tiny and silver,
in a secret chamber,
bells sing a lullaby.
A child is born on New Year’s Day,
wrapped in hope,
bathed in joy.
A man is dead; a child is born.