Dead Race Poem by welkin siskin

In the violent skirmish of the Mosque
Many in the line of fire- friends and relatives,
The innocent and the honest die;
In the wild day enshrouded by a frightful dusk,
A whole lot—from children to the old lie
In the clinch of debris':
Roofs bang on the yard followed by all Church,
Bedlam turns up in agony with hues and cries;
Seeing the pile of the dead,
Goes the other crash pad and again, lurch;
Lives fizzles out whatever it comes to be.
The monasteries that on hilltop lie
Are on the selvage of grim blitz,
With the spread of maddening scuffle;
For we've made hash of their parts
And put out the flow of candles,
That bright light of the hearts of people;
Temples, thus, are not safe,
They are ruined like a lightening-stricken tree;
Unknown the story—
Why needed each of us so be?
Those shimmers that temples cast have gone;
For we've not learnt what we've done.
For the soft cover is our mind where we learn
Best of night and dark—and yet, still adroit are we to shun,
Those howlers standing against our mind,
Reconditioning the lights of those who believe.