Bounties of war, swathed in stately shroud
Smell the rotting flesh, on martyrs’ pride!
Who lied to them, that a death avowed
Is the only deed, to be glorified!
Bravo, bravo! How many stars?
Will you earn, not see, with stony eyes
Whilst time fades your glory, those lasting scars
Are just for your kin, to rationalize!
To slumber amongst, a clan of killers
Who fight for their lands, or their régimes!
Nameless, faceless, same cadavers
Mere fodders, to their nations’ schemes!
Why histories love, to nurture wars
Into heroes’ epics, not a mean bloodshed
We raise new martyrs, to settle old scores
In the farms of gores, When We Count Our Dead!
© 2017 Vikas Chandra