Glory of War

By Devalacheruvu Ridhima

Great art thou; who praise the glory of war,     

 From the comfort of a podium and a stage

You, who simply rides the tides of fame,

Whilst the rifles clatter and bones shatter;

The poor musketeer bleeds out his life’s blood 

Sinking; to the depths of the sea, body lost; soul razed,

Such is the glory of war thou praise. 

Magnificent art thou; who seek the glory of war,

Raising the war flags, sounding the horns

You, who marches on in columns and rows, not a thought of regret,

To kill a soul, whose name you don’t know, whose family never met

In a brief moment of glory, all humanity and sympathy you forget.

As the land soaks in Sulphur and blood, its scent which reeks,

Such is the glory of war thou seeks.

But highest are thou; who feigns ignorance towards it all

Not a shred of empathy, neither scorn nor applause.

You, who let the seminal tragedy continue, see what is left in its wake.

A widowed wife; an orphaned child and a vast land with no one left to rake.

For a nation’s pride to not be sullied,

The future’s hope is left in disarray.

Great men speak of platitudes a many,

But as the blood spills, guns fire and tanks roll, all promises but one fade away.

For the glory of war, may certainly arrive.

The victors basking in the splendor, leaving behind all pain and writhe.

For the effects of an illness as terrible and miserable as war,

Cannot be seen in the pages of books, long and tall.

Ask a mother what she has lost.

Ask a child what it has seen.

A city with no lights,

Thoughts for a future that is never bright.

A blood soaked sari; a mortified twisted corpse.

A fear and hurt that instills forevermore in their heart

“They are the enemy! They deserve to die!” you shout across the line,

As a bullet lodges in a young man’s head, he’s only a conscript; simply paying a fine. 

The reports may read ‘all quiet in the trenches tonight’

But say that to the mother, cradling the corpse of what was her joy, her light.

Despite it all, we turn to our legions,

“Glory to the victors! Glory to the champions!”

Chanting on, and shouting our decrees,

Drowning out the sufferer’s pleas.

We from the solace of our citadels,

Can carelessly spew our morals and ideals,

 The numbers of the dead on the papers to us are simply that.

A number, a statistic, a collateral to be paid in such a national spat.

Reduced to a mere count, not a face nor sinews,

Ripped of their humanity, published on the news,

With the same recreated condolences to the tune

Of papers filled to the rhyme of a ‘soul gone too soon’.

But they weren’t a soul gone too soon!

They were ripped away, knowingly so, under our very own view!

Their blood flows on our hands, crimson and true.

Staining the conscience of all who knew

That their deaths were in vain, a complete farce,

For no act of sacrilege, terror, blasphemy or treason demands a pass;

To take a life, that was never yours to be.

Enemy or friend, companion or adversary.

But who am I to preach? A mere spectator of it all?

Let us ask the souls who have faced the brunt of the fall.

The victims of the Nazi, Nanking and Nakba will revise,

That there is no great “Glory of war”; only suffering and strife.

The soldiers of Vietnam, Verdun and Vukovar will recall,

There is no magnificent glory of war, only the death of humanity, the one great end-all.

And so I ask,

To all those who see, but walk astray,

To all who hear, yet turn away,

And to all who do, but don’t think before, I ask;

What glory do thou seek, that justifies the loss of all that we adore?

For the glory of war is one seeped in agony and grief.

And hence, I seek to ask but one question,

Is this the glory of war you wish to achieve?

By Devalacheruvu Ridhima