Metaphorical

The doe burrows her muzzle,
soft as a thrush’s down,
into spring’s palette of young green grass
and a rainbow carpet of wildflowers
until it tickles,
then carefully bares her teeth
and gently plucks a new blade,
chews, savors, is content
amid the stillness
of leaf touching leaf in the breeze,
and turns to suckle her fawns.
Far away in a place
where no deer remain
there is no quiet,
only bedlam shattering
body and soul,
and young men
who suckled 
at their own mothers’ breasts
not so long ago
bare their teeth like the doe,
though in a grimace of death,
and desperately cry,
Mama, help, make it stop,
but mother cannot make stop
what avarice has started,
and the drums of war
keep pounding,
while oblivious to
any possible visitation
by the drummers of death
the doe lies down to rest.

It Can’t Happen Here