A mother walks through bullets for bread
A child through shellfire for a sip of grain
Young girls bleed in corners quietly
Toddlers die in mothers' arm from thirst.
This is the plot, world is writing on,
Poets, presidents, painters even parrots
all scribbling words on rubbles and ruins.
An aid truck hums like ice cream van
drawing children to their deaths.
Graves are homes, morgues have IV drips
beeping machines mourn louder than mothers.
This is the setting, leaders are banking on.
Protestors, professors, publishers even pilgrims
all parading pain for policies and propaganda.
Camera's click as children chase compassion
Aid drops flutter like dying doves
every countable rib is a bestseller,
Prime time feeds on man-made famine.
This is the climax, audience is locked on
Photographers, producers, preachers even podcasters
all packaging pain for premieres and praise.
This is the modern-day Macbeth where power demands
we slit our conscience to wear crowns.
Guilt is a graveyard and every prophecy is screaming
from scorched soil to sear our souls.
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Author:
Aman 12 (
Offline) - Published: August 6th, 2025 04:07
- Comment from author about the poem: this poem was written for a contest, the prompts being - a tragedy and Shakespeare.
- Category: Sociopolitical
- Views: 9
Offline)
Comments2
A poem of the horror of war which is built into the Human DNA built on human greed, money to be made, power to be taken, primitive desire for revenge, rigid inability to accept differences in others be it religion, race, or values. A powerful write
wars are not accidents.. they feel like rituals.
They are never ending waves on the sea of human nature.
It sounded like a critique on the Gaza war, or am I once again, off the track?
if you feel so then, it is so..
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