They baptized moor, in the blood of war
Whose faith is, all but sanity
Why make hatred, chivalry’s metaphor
And martyrs of, men’s vanity!
The rain of gore, looming petrichor
Stinks of that mother’s, last menses
Whose soul, we tore, in nations galore
And split our hearts, with barbed fences!
Where cooed, the mirth of nightingale
Now wails a widow, requiem of pain
Drunk with the blood, from Holy Grail
Of war, and love for a lust profane!
Behold the relics, of lost conquests
Heaps of men, their spent furor
Who’s won ever, these bloody fests?
In the farms of fear, Wasteland of War!
© 2017 Vikas Chandra