No Laurels For The Dead Poem by Dr Harish Yadav

Let no man gild the cannon's mouth with praise,
Nor call the smoke of ruin noble breath;
For war is but the art of ending days,
A patient architect in league with death.

It breaks the school, the cradle, and the bread,
It salts the wound and sanctifies the scar;
It writes its anthem where the brave have bled,
Then leaves the mothers asking what wars are.

The banners rise, the speeches learn to soar,
Yet graves lie mute beneath their borrowed flame;
For glory's tongue grows thin when faced with gore,
And history forgets the butcher's name.

If peace must bloom, let memory be its seed:
The dead need witness more than words of deed.