Wound and Scars

Two elephant fought, No death these giant sought, Victory their trumpet bought, But it is the grass that dies without suffering drought. The canon sound the dying drums, Relics of war, ale and rum, Silent the snipper for a bottle of whisky, Aye! Aye! Soldiers, even life is risky. Let us fight for freedom, Let us do combat to break chains, Peace is the son of war, Bought with the blood of the dead, Cos death is freedom. The remains shall strive , Like a sprout after a fire, Singing songs of a memorial, Gathering their deceased for burial. Mothers standing, awaiting their sons, Infant trying to suckle from her dead mother, Boys daring to aid their wobbling knees, Only to fall back to the ground. Flesh serrated by stray bullets seeking a home, Hands lost to swords like a ghost seeking a host, Corpses littered around from the greatest massacre, Hunger enthroned as the new king. Eye bare to mere burnt, Every thing lost in war, Fathers rendered fatherless, Mothers reaped of their children, Sons and daughters sing the solo songs of sorrow. Lost, Missing in combat, Peace if folly When bought with war. These wounds may heal, These vacuum may be filled, But the scars would never leave, For such are relics of war.