War

WAR

Once one little boy asked me what is war:

“Is that a group of soldiers defending our shore?

Is that a tiny rock in system’s greatest wheel?

Is that our death, to which we now appeal?

Why is it called disease and when it first appeared?

Why is it bad and why the war is our fear?

Aren’t our losses worse, much hurter, less sublime?

The solitude kills more, it’s gross, it’s not divine.

The fear not to have is worse than fear to lose,

Those phobias in minds catch our souls in noose.

Being failed, empty, burnt – just ashes will remain…

But doesn’t war now show us the ways to explain?”

And so the boy left me, immersed in rain’s grey scale,

The void was filled with thoughts, with phrases’ giant whales.

Consequent – unexpected, pure but widely rotten,

Whispered me that dreads wouldn’t be forgotten.

The war now seems a farce, combining laugh and tears,

When the people’s madness is structured, proper gear.