Like the, scattered beads, of a rosary, lost
Those psalms, of hope, moaned by, despair
Since sons, left shores, to pay, pride’s cost
Faith baptized, in the, dust of fear!
What’s left, to write, to those, who left
To never return, for the, Christmas day
Besides litanies, for their lives, bereft
Of hope, that flirts, with death, each day!
“Why you chose, to be, martyr, my son!”
Reads a mother’s, mourning, obituary
“Why sons, should die, for the wars, to be won!
To etch, in blood, history’s vainglory!”
Lest their replies, return, in cold coffins
Men caged, in manhood’s, pretensions
A lasting requiem, of, mankind’s sins
Those Letters, To The, Dying Sons!
© 2021 Vikas Chandra