The Echoes of War

The drums of war, they beat so loud,

A call to arms, a swelling crowd.

Beneath the banners, hopes ignite,

Yet shadows stretch to snuff the light.

The fields of gold, now stained with red,

A cradle turned into a bed.

The earth, once soft with seeds to sow,

Now wears the scars of mortal woe.

Homes crumble into heaps of dust,

Dreams shatter, faith reduced to rust.

A mother’s cry, a child’s despair,

The price of conflict, none can bear.

The skies, once blue, now black with smoke,

The songs of birds, a choked-out joke.

The rivers run with tears and blood,

The forests drown beneath the flood.

Men march as pawns in games of kings,

Each step a dirge, their silence sings.

The promises of glory fade,

Their futures lost in steel and blade.

And when the cannons cease their roar,

What peace is left? What was it for?

A bitter truce, a fleeting rest,

The wounds remain, unhealed, unblessed.

For war is not a fleeting storm,

It shapes the land, it molds the norm.

Its whispers linger, haunt the night,

And generations bear its blight.

Yet still we yearn for wiser days,

For hearts to burn with kinder blaze.

A world where voices heal, not harm,

Where love can shield us, soft and warm.

Oh, may we learn before too late,

The weight of war, the cost of hate.

For in the ashes, none can win,

And peace must start where wars begin.

                             ☆☆☆