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 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.