Guitars of War

When men of fame do meet discord, They find a way to prove their point. Then it is, they think of the art, And call to play artists of doom. The artists too, who know their art, Would play the strings from their guitars, Releasing pleasant sounds of doom That leave men gasping for breaths of air. Babies wail, toddlers weep; Their mothers too have felt the sounds Taking rise from the guitars of war, And lay by them with gaping eyes. Young boys leave, all on their heels, And flee without their closest ones, Fear oozing out of every pore That yet has not been blocked by blood. Sounds of horror fill the misty air: Bombshells cracking open, ‘leasing doom, Creaking sounds from shattered houses Under attack by massive arson, Rhythmic thuds of bodies to the ground From mortal tones that vade the air, The agonised screams of innocence, Dwarfed only by the dreadful cannonade. Screams of little girls, barely grown, Receiving men they’ve never known, Left alone in shattered raiment To brood and lick their bleeding wounds. Tender ones, better off dead, Trudge along, barely standing, With sunken cheeks and pointed ribs Peeping from transparent chests. They’d give their leaf-thick fleshy parts Just to lay their hands on flour, Before the next artistic blast takes them unawares. What a sharp contrast they are To all their mates that live with fame. The day is dead, the show is off, The artists then return to base To meet females with smiling kids That know not what their fathers do. All is well, their lives are good, As pay bags do weigh higher. Victory is here, but for whom? The hundreds that hushed the thousand? Fellow men, what have you done? Composed your master piece i guess!