the dove and the eagle in the same branch?
Stopping those bullets in a war game,
the bloody battlefield into a green ranch.
Will the leaders ever know, that
sobbing and wailing is the same all over?
It has to be reaped what they sow,
there is no place to run for cover.
The spoils of war, the widows' cries
spurts agony even in the vulture's eyes.
Some committed to fire, others to earth,
cut short- a life promised at birth.
Can we really still not even hear,
how the dead speaks from the grave?
The silent story behind every tear,
of how the living dishonoured the brave.
Will the tables ever turn,
for an even playing field?
No ashes, nothing to burn, all
efforts put just to live and build.
Prasenjit©1997-2021
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