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Poem

For those who should
Be on watch
In our defense
Opted for a romance with her
Chasing the treasures on her neck
In an endless discovery

The Sword is on the field….
For they have trodden the path
Of small is not beautiful
In a parasitic center
Drunk with wine in which
Is dissipation
While the sword drinks in mirth
The blood of contemporaneity
Our confessed sentinels
Have refused to stand
Girding their waists with altruism
These voluptuous sentinels
Forgot,
The river that draws the battle line
With its origin will not live to grind the axe

The Sword is on the field
For they decided
To sheath their sword
Even the shield and the helmet
Watched intrepidly at the ordnance
Shaking their heads in utter dismay

The Sword is on the field
It is yet to be satiated
For the elects
Shod their feet
Verbalizing false gospel of oneness
With unedifying necessities
That imparts no grace to the hearers

The Sword is on the field…. 
And the field in ceaseless flow of bloodied democracy
In ceaseless flow with dumdum bullets
The master’s sword of legitimacy
Is undermined
And the sword bruised sanctity

Still, The Sword is on the field!
Where shall we run?
When small is not beautiful
We sanctify the field
But the blood
Would not cease to flow

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