The sequestered silence of a far flung land,
The cold hard weapon, in an empty hand.
A hail of bullets shower on a grassy mound.
Mans darkest weakness, the only sound.
Invasion of a foreign place,
No peace, no love, no human grace,
Honour lost to be never found,
As it curdles on the scarlet ground.
Trucks and tanks roll over arid plains.
The natives cry for God, their only source of hope.
While cowards hide behind their desks;
For them, unjust deaths are hard to cope.
Mothers wait in anguish, to see the daily news.
Where politicians quibble, to try and change their views.
Still bodies return, draped with linen flags.
Whilst kids are covered up, with bloody linen rags.
When will man understand,
That victory doesn't come from a marching band?
Only from the dignity shared, teeth gritted and hostilities bared,
Godspeed to an unjust deed, named war.