1 views
War
War.
The boy knelt beside the ashes of his mother,
He was wondering why the mother lied unmoved .
The grandmother had seen wars and lost all seven children,
Her trembling limbs carried her granddaughter to the grave.
The dancing rags of the dead man was buried with him still,
Clothes are clothes, Death is not picky.
The poor man who lived making tents is set ablaze,
For he went to feed his family but was fed on by the bombs of the foe.
Even in death, he resisted fire and wanted something decent.
When we speak of war,
We talk not of of the lifeless uncountable bodies.
We talk of shattered ambitions and freedoms,
Like the flickering fire of the wood furnace.
© omega*3
Related Stories
