The Tune of Deth

when peace rides the
edge of a sword,
clashes of steel
nary a raindrop falls,
blood soaked ground
does not nurture,
withers the rosebud,
malnourished child suckles
the dried nipples of
a dying mother’s
shriveled breasts,
a drop of milk
as elusive as
promised peace.

march in the
merchants of death,
in search of an oasis,
they turned the land
into a desert,
the rosebud long ago
turned to dust,
as the sightless
eyes of the child
scours the heavens,
the charlatans raise
their glistening swords
to the sky,
in paeans to an almighty absent.

somewhere alone in his den,
a poet sheds a
few drops of crocodile’s tears,
the feeling genuine,
an effort futile,
not one heart will be touched,
no parched land made fertile,
no rosebuds will bloom,
no milk shall wet the
thirsty lips,
the world will go its way,
as the seekers of peace,
blinded by hate,
bow their heads at the alters
and dance to the tune of death.

Epilogues to be Written

Somewhere a dried fallen leaf silently weeping
Somewhere a rosebud resplendent in its innocent smile
In this hide and seek of smile and cry
We are tortured history’s witnesses, deaf and blind

In the relentless forward journey of life
It may be better to let go and start anew
Pain and sufferings of those fallen and left behind
Hard will be to erase the pain from our hearts

Memories, written in indelible ink and stored
Tucked away under multiple layers and keys lost
Floating into conscious from subconscious
Searing pain of hopeless hearts

Easier to turn new pages of the books of life
Events and characters of pages already read
Rearing their heads, time to time, will disturb
Prologues gone and history, epilogues to be written