What blight, begets, this, womb of clay
Where, faith of hunger, measures fear
And bad-blood, two, brothers’ despair
Mired, in the midst, of a, mean melee!

“My child, can’t sleep, his entrails pain
Alas! No more, milk, spills out, of my breasts”
A mother mourns, “For a war, so vain,
Men, baptize hatred, in blood-fests!”

War-lords declare,”We’ll spare, no one
Will, bite a bullet, every, damn son”
Regimes, run by, pious politicians
Brazen it, out with, shenanig(u)ns!

How long, will last, equator’s curse
Devouring, Africa, shred, by shred
To a, life of lie, death’s truth, whispers
“Here, Bullets Are, Cheaper, Than Bread!”

© 2022 Vikas Chandra