The art of war

War is of men and their

ambitions to take and defend,

and they wrap it pretty in the language

of freedom, and honour, and courage,

so it seems such a just and noble cause

to be remembered and celebrated,

and become the stuff of art and books,

strategy games and films.


But in the end,

the art of war is

about death,

about rape,

about pain,

about loss,

about dislocation,

about destruction,

about killing another being

who will never return again.


There are no victories,

There are no gains.

Just silent victims

whose voices are not heard.

And scars scratched on a landscape

that once stood serene and tall,

filled with jagged memories that should

not be remembered at all.


I will sit in ancient ashes and pray for its end.

And I will not parade with jingoistic flag waving,

as if war is somehow, in some way, sane.