War

In the springtime ferrets flee,
Hiding in their burrows from the one who see,
High above with wings so large,
Making shadows on the grounds of life,

Scent is the gift of smell,
Let’s predators and scavengers tell,
A dead thing in the not too distant land,
That has parted from this earth and sand,

Beauty is such a gift,
With it one can persuade anyone in a swift,
Making them not think twice of their actions,
In a world with a great deal of expectations,

In a fairly low density quarters Far East,
Political instability sends some away from their feast,
To carry arms and AK-47’s,
Firing bullets and sending many into tears,

Asked a man; is life a real-time war-game?
He answers; if so, I am pretty bad in getting some game,
Not that I don’t know how to pull the trigger,
It’s just that I’ve not the heart to be a killer,

In the past, waging war against another nation,
Was so commonplace without any sort of notion,
People were most probably bored and left for their station,
Having no Nintendo nor a Play Station,

War is such a beautiful game,
Especially to those who win and fame,
Come knocking to their doorstep,
Not so much so a grand occasion for those who lost, cry and weep,

The glory of a nation depends on,
A leader who’s in charge in running the whole operation,
For instance if you have Hitler,
Then you’ll most probably win having also a leading member in the form of Himler.

This poem was written by Sunil Rao.
Please do not use them without permission I plead.