Our self-importance know-no-bounds,
Holding on to the wrong sense of superiority
We place ourselves on that imaginary throne
Build on the bones of countless we devour
Which began with fear of being consumed
but later for reasons as simple as a sport.

How content are we placing ourselves in such a spot
Steer clear of everything that was an eyesore
Disturbing our calm and peaceful lives
And damaging our pretty rose gardens?
How content are we standing in this throne room,
Smeared in the blood of innocent lives
And echoing screams of victory and defeat,
Laughing off all those horrific atrocities?

We were busy washing off the blood-stained hands,
Which were to protect those lives that perished by the same;
we still march forward with this one-sided war,
Not choosing to save at least the survivors instead.
We were busy camping the seized properties
building sturdy monuments, big and small,
We are corrupting the land, waters and air
Which were once pristine and serene.

Our ever-raising greed knows-no-ends;
Our never-ceasing thirst for flavour novelty,
Our selective blindness to these open debauchery
And our careful deafness to their cries from butchery
Be an undeniable curse to not just us but also the entirety
And something that will haunt all for eternity.

© Pandora