Not in my Name

When world can't justify bloodshed
they improvise with a pretty dame
History smiles cheekily
delighted to play the game.

Helen’s cheekbone “launched” an armada,
as if kings weren't itching for blood.
They swore Sita’s shadow shattered kingdoms,
but it was wounded pride that turned the dust to flood.

Anne Boleyn “toppled” a church,
because a tyrant wanted a different bed.
Marie “bankrupted” a nation,
but who misused the bread?

Cleopatra “sparked” their civil wars,
if you trust the victor’s spite.
Joan of Arc “provoked” a nation,
just by daring to stand and fight.

Afghan women “needed saving,”
so, the tanks rolled in like holy knights.
Twenty years later, the saviors left 
and the women stayed to bury their rights.

And now, in every modern crisis,
the chorus returns on cue
“Our women! Their women! Someone’s women!”
as if women asked them to.

Not anymore, and not in my name
War, I am done being your claim.