War And Peace - Poem by krishna kumar
One who loves his country more than his soul is indeed a boon to his country
By the name of it, every country loses its valuable gift every time.
Those who are involved in it, even, don't know the reason 'why'
They just fight, win or lose and at last die.
It is just a bad example the past has left for us.
It is a circle that ends at the same point where it began
And continues forever;
It can never find a solution to a problem
Because it is itself a problem to a solution;
It makes a patriot either a killer or a corpse;
It makes people either cry or curse.
It is a disease that debilitates the health of a nation,
And soon kills it from suffering and pain.
Nothing would fall under its gain;
Only the innocent people becomes its prey
It is strange, stupid and foolish
It is a beast that haunts the beautiful angel of peace
'War' is a just meaningless word that spoils the tranquilizing poem of love;
And sometimes it is nothing but Politicians' Drama
In which the people are the puppets tied with their patriotic threads
Making them to dance based on their wish; these innocent people constitute the politicians' play;
It is sometimes the senators' game, in which
Only unquestioning people are used as the equipments,
Their eyes being hid by the dark cloth of the Fanaticism of their Nation.
The past gave us many things to regret and remorse, yet
The final decision still lefts on us,
We may grow gardens with flowers of peace and love
Else we may fill the grave yards with the corpse and cries;
We may give the future either a delight or remorse.
Two pots and two threads are there within our reach;
We may offer the hands of future fragrance of roses in one pot
And lash them together by the thread of peace;
Else we may stain the future by immersing their hands in another pot of blood
And fasten them with the thread of war.
Comments about War And Peace by krishna kumar
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye