The war is just a euphemism for death, -
it has its icy eyes, rotten breath,
insatiable greed of gaping graves
that separate sons and their mothers
and make all dead united like brothers.
And, when in its delirium war raves,
a putrid gangrene spreading on the soul,
with hatred at its source and as its goal,
then merciless its sinister selection:
it favours young, and hopeful, and strong,
all those, who so desperately long
to live and love, who have an expectation
of greater things, but they’re set apart
to perish in the trenches, and the fields
drench their blood. The troubled mother’s heart
is then condemned to know how it feels
to carry memories - her child’s sunny smile,
his steps, and cuddles, and matured voice -
all treasures that assert the death’s denial,
but, facing war – its ruthless fatal choice,
a question stabs her soul at the core
in sleepless nights: what for? what for? what for?
17 August 2011