The Hands That Hold The Hideous Guns

vikas chandra

Lest wars, create, more saints, of hate
Whose rosary, recounts, shibboleths of death
Sons learn, to flaunt, their manly trait
To be, hailed “martyr”, ‘before’ last breath!

In that, cradle lay, his rattle lost
Where a lullaby, had nurtured, his dream
To be, a boy, at childhood’s cost
With a machismo, mean, left to redeem!

All beauty, grasped, whose fervent fist
His father’s, finger, mother’s breast
And his, love’s hand, in hearts’, tender tryst
Now clasps, dead dust, in his, last conquest!

Who left, all love, to embrace war
Are pawns, of whose, shenanigans
Who play, politics of, faith, fear, gore,…
With The Hands, That Hold, The Hideous Guns!

© 2021 Vikas Chandra

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