I am the stillborn son of war, Strapped on to an unmanned chariot of unrealized dreams; Ever Since I was born as the heir , To the twin kingdoms of hypothetics and hypocrisy.
I am a silent sculpture, Of the broken skeletons of sorrow, Nourished by the blood of the vanquished, And meant to unite the mourners on the banks of defeat, Under a common cause.
I am an unopened letter of sympathy, Waiting, For the last tear drop on the armor of the vanquished to dry . I am the final abandoned fresco, Fading to obscurity; As it graces the crumbling walls, In the Chapel of fallen hopes.
I am the moan of the heart , Where the echoes of my prophecy, Have greeted celebrations of existence, Long before I was born to die.
I am the chant. Immortalized. Immorralized . By the reverend voices that preached , From the pulpits of divine demagogues.
I am the invincible myth, Inheritance of abstracts afar, For I was christened Peace , The stillborn son of war.