If this, is war
_
We were told
That while at war
Blood runs cold
And twilight comes,
Before sunset
That bodies are found,
Like shrivelled leaves
And the sanctity of life
Withers away,
Like moonlit beauty,
Withers with night.
_
We were told
That while at war
Homes may not crumble down,
And nights may not be lit With drone-strikes,
But, the people awaken,
To fear that dwells
in their affrighted hearts,
Leaving not enough of an abode,
For a glimmer of hope.
If, this, and this, is what war is,
Then who is more entitled to tell stories,
Of war and fright with tears rolling,
Than me, and those who dwelt with me,
In this nation and generation of mine.
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This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem