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In all the books of history written with ink of blood and dried tears,
There is no war that was not hatched in the shadow of palaces of power,
Governments alone, like birds of prey sharpening their claws in silence,
Independent of the hearts of people, for whom war is always poison.
How many generations have marched on dusty roads toward certain death,
Carrying on their shoulders the dreams of men in expensive suits and cold offices,
While children and women wept at home, knowing they would never see the dawn,
Governments weave wars like spiders weave their webs, with patience and meticulousness.
The people, like a sea of souls that wants to live and love,
Never wish to send their sons to slaughter, to see the red fields,
But the unseen hands of power move the pawns on history's chessboard,
And simple people become soldiers, and soldiers become numbers on endless lists.
Even in victories, war is a disease that devastates souls,
Leaving behind only full cemeteries and grieving mothers who no longer smile,
How many homes have remained empty, how many stories interrupted mid-sentence,
While governments count profits and redraw borders on dirty maps.
And thus, in the silence of nights when the moon looks down on earth with sad eyes,
We can hear the echo of all wars that have been and will yet be,
Hatched in the palaces of power, where people are nothing but figures on paper,
And peace is merely a pause between two acts of the same tragic spectacle.
If we could rise above the noise of time and look with closed eyes,
We would see that war is not born from the hearts of people, but from the vanity of leaders,
Like a poison distilled in the laboratories of ambition, then poured over the world,
While we, the people, remain forever too small to stop this madness.

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