Buckled knees, bleeding gums,
wearing mark of Patriotism or human error?
Blood stained dirt floor, stained, too stained.
limbs fighting, a war inside and out, for reason.
Pain in heart for love lost and waiting; Futile.
knives to necks, heads bearing helmet or turban, it matters not,
as blade drags like saw to wood on sinew and life,
as latter dissipates slowly, painfully. Slowly. Painfully.
To mother, awaiting her child, an empty embrace.
To young lover, aglow with marriage turned paleness of widow.
And wife bearing child, who will never know their father,
I ask, for what we do this?
For what we allow them, young and strong and new,
to don the uniform of impending doom and nightmare,
and march onto the field of destruction,
to break between the fine line of Patriotism and Murder?
- Diya
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A poem about War
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