When you, shake hands, or clap, with just one
After brokering truce, sans the, other heart
You’ll never, ever hear, that peace’s, paean
Which is fired, from the gun, of Bonaparte!

The Promised Peace, to, The Promised Land
Beyond Trump’s Plan, and the, Oslo Accord
Is a tomb, of faith, on, fear’s quicksand
An omen, of more pain, signed by, spite’s sword!

Why enigma, be their, existence
Whose only hope, is, eternal jihads
And those, who live, for forbearance
Whilst they fight, their fears, in faith’s façades!

Would the Prophets, ever know, what they bestowed
Tear-drenched, ironies, blood-bathed, hyperboles
In the, farm of fear, from the faith, they sowed
Why Peace, Eludes, Two Scattered Souls … !

© 2020 Vikas Chandra