It started not with blood and flame,
But whispers passed in power’s name.
A line was drawn upon the land,
Then came the gun, the sword, the hand.
A fuse was lit beneath the skies,
By suits in rooms with shadowed eyes.
The youth were called with dreams still warm,
To fight the tide, to face the storm.
They kissed their homes, their sweethearts' hair,
And marched to lands they’d never care
To know in peace — only in strife,
Where death would barter soul for life.
Steel rain fell where poppies grew,
And turned the fields to crimson hue.
The mud consumed both horse and man,
And time stood still beneath the span
Of shattered trees and smoking wire —
A world remade by man-made fire.
The cities groaned, the skies turned black,
And none could dream of turning back.
Factories roared with sleepless breath,
Mothers stitched the cloth of death.
Children learned to hide and run
Before they ever saw the sun.
The sea was red, the air was flame,
And all the maps were not the same.
Old empires crumbled into dust,
Their banners soaked with rot and rust.
But even victors bore a cost —
No side could count the lives they lost.
And yet, amid the cannon's cry,
Where angels feared to watch or fly,
A soldier shared his crust of bread
With one who moments prior had bled
To take his life — the bitter proof
That hate breaks down beneath the roof
Of shared despair, of human pain —
And peace can bloom in war’s own rain.
The medics bent with trembling grace
To heal the wounds war can’t erase.
The chaplain prayed, the wounded swore,
The poets wrote from under floor
Of trenches deep and tunnels black,
And dreamed of one day coming back.
But not all do. The nameless graves
Lie silent near the ocean’s waves.
The dogs still bark where soldiers fell,
And trees remember shot and shell.
Their roots grow through the iron waste,
Through helmets left in hasty haste.
Now decades on, the drums are still,
But shadows walk the highest hill.
And when the wind moves just so light,
We hear the ghosts who chose to fight —
Not for the glory, nor the gain,
But just to end a deeper pain.
The war does not die with the guns,
It lingers on in daughters, sons.
In empty chairs, in shattered glass,
In stories grandmothers may pass.
In dreams of those who wear the scars,
And wake to march through mental wars.
Remember this, you heirs of peace:
The cost of pride does not decrease.
And if you must take up the blade,
Then do so knowing what is paid.
The war may sleep, but not forget —
And we are in its shadow yet.
