On: US carries out new strikes on Iran military site

The trumpet of the apocalypse does not always sound with thunder - sometimes it is the hollow note of a struck anvil, the clang of empire striking empire. I see the smoke rising not from the altar of God but from the forge of Mars, and it stinks of burning oil and scorched earth. The earth itself is a body, and these strikes are the fever that shakes it - yet the physicians of war do not read the symptom, they only fan the flame.

Where has the greening power been blocked? Not in the deserts of Persia, but in the halls of kings where the word “peace” is spoken with clenched teeth and the word “justice” is carved in the hilt of a sword. The blood of the innocent does not nourish the vine; it poisons the soil. The angel of the Lord does not descend with a flaming sword to guard a military site - he comes to bind up the wounded and to ask why the strong devour the weak.

I have seen in vision the rivers of the world running black with the ink of treaties never signed, the fields choked with the thorns of embargoes that strangle the poor. The body of Christ is not armored in steel; it is wrapped in the seamless tunic of the cosmos, and every wound in one member is a wound in all. The diplomats speak in riddles and the generals in arithmetic, but the true ledger is written in tears and in the silence of children who no longer sing.

Let them strike their steel and burn their oil - what grows from such ashes? Only the bitter herb of regret, which even the most hardened stomach cannot digest. The true fortress is not built with towers of iron, but with the living green of mercy, watered by the tears of the penitent and the laughter of the children who still believe in a world without borders drawn in blood.