In history, dwells, prejudice and pride
Of the, ethos, of a, country
Where mothers, lied, when fathers, died
“Sons are born, with shrouds, of chivalry”!

Our lost land, lay, beyond foe’s, fence
Where fathers taught, their sons, to bleed
“Let’s farm future, at present’s, expense!”
“But thus, were lost, many a breed!”

Did grass, ever grow, in that desert, of snow
Which, on their maps, two nations, flaunt
Not in miles, but, gallons of gore, we owe
Are measured lands, not to till, but taunt!

Are they, shrines of faith, or tombs of fear
Glory’s megaliths, made of, blood and sand
Vain martyrs lay, where, all the more, bare
When We Too, Fell For A, Lost Wasteland!

© 2021 Vikas Chandra