That moor bemoans, which bore yesterday
The lasting sighs, of her fallen sons
“Both lads were mine, I made with clay
In the same soil, lost, your warriors’ paeans!”
So what became, of that war, which was won!
By none, but the state, which slayed more men
To then barter, with the land undone
The price of glory, in history, amen!
No more, than a count, those vain martyrs
Now cut to size, to fit their graves
Whilst statesmen, haggle, ‘Peace Charters’
Penned, with the blood of, one-use braves!
Lo and behold, enigma of war!
Where blood, pays price, of pride’s malice
Why nations adore, blood-fiestas, galore
For the travesty of, A War For Peace!
© 2018 Vikas Chandra