As a writer of Dystopia, I am disillusioned with war. Mostly because I see its connection to power. War isn’t the only method of power-mongers. Diplomacy is too. When you have power in the hands of those with wrong intentions, words can be just as deceiving as war. I take refuge in poetry today. Today I hope to bring some meaning to the madness.
The aggressors’ hands
fumble,
bring down a weeping
of blood
to mar the beauty of wheat-fields
And the sky above
is still a poem
even if the sirens blare
like hellish ghouls,
that consume every quivering atom in the universe
But you say the sky is carved into day and night
and I say you’ve colonized it-
taken the dust and hurdled it into snake dens
and now wonder
why the price of oil
has become the price of our blood
History will count
the grains of rice that you broke
In a power-hungry rage, not fit for fools,
and the starving orphans that
suffered in the bowels of the giving earth