The riddle, of a, riddled dream
Looks daggers, at that, martyred truth
Which faith, in fear, failed to redeem
Where ruthless, ‘Gun-smiths’, pity ruth!

Slave trade; civil war; democratic right!
Guns are guarded, here, at the cost, of life
Gunpowder scares, more than, dynamite
When it runs, in the veins, of ethnic strife!

More Guns, are here, than hearths, and hearts
More hate, than hope, to end, a race
Where a funeral, ends, a shooting, starts
There is no soul, that bullets, don’t chase!

Presidents pay tributes, with, glycerine-tears
Politics flirts, with, the crisis’s, solutions
American Dream, finds, in its faith, its fears
When The Guns, Spell, “Shenani-Guns”!

© 2021 Vikas Chandra