From wounds and scars,
Once my soul will be healed,
Hidden tales of wars,
Will be themselves revealed.

The war was futile,
We mourned and cried,
Millions of men came from mile,
Knowingly we unknowns, brutally died.

I cried to my mother,
She asked not to bother,
War wasn't needed,
But people still heeded.

Love was a way,
At the threshold of the day.
We ignored it well,
So night led us to hell.

Heaven was open,
For the lion of den,
As he hunts for hunger
But not like the men.

No more is my body,
But my soul can speak,
Our work must embody,
The philosophy of the weak.

© Anurag Anupam