Lest, we forget, they are, someones’ sons
We bless, with the shroud, of martyrdom
This vainglory’s, political, dimensions
Bare to bone, the myths of, many an ism!
They fight, for their land, or someone’s fief
Who wants, to settle, his political score
They’re pawns, and puppets, beyond belief
Who bleed, to baptize, their matador!
Who bred, boys to, malicious, mean men
With faith, of fear, and flair, to hate
Man, legally murders man, with his, instinct’s yen
In the, ‘utopia’, brinkmen, create!
They last, to laugh, who play, war-game
Drooling at, blood-graffiti, on their walls
And, hard-bargain, peace, for pious fame
When The, Last Man, Falls!
© 2022 Vikas Chandra