The Curse

Halt, listen to the sound of a microscopic bullet sore through the bloody core of peace, that lies dead upon the ground. The echoing fatal whistle, that drowns dying gasps, the callous sting of wasps, provoked by the landing of a missile. Men of "honour", fighting for liberation, for glory and for greed, but only two men in the lead, brandishing their pawns in a battle for domination. Good, courageous soldiers fought, in poverty and in strife, dreaming of a better life, is this the future they sought? How easy it would be to hate, from one's safe stead of righteousness, the massacre of murderers, patriotism, the barbaric brutal bait. And then there is the silence, of lifeless parts scattered a victory of bones is all that really mattered, torture and torment, their last penance. Do you hear the grief, the sobbing and cries of mourning, the unending tears of the living, as one the decaying carcasses falls the last leaf. Since 1918, this killing spree has never ceased as history continues to rehearse, this eternal horrific curse, where only the dead can ever rest in peace.