Ghost of War

An ill-meant deed embodied in metal pervades minds and wills,
all of them deprived, all of them resigned,
for darkened hours have obscured skies,
allowing them shed tears,
permitting them their shrills cry.
Red sunsets for them all to behold,
and souls in torment to cry sufferings of old,
nothing else is left, just piles of ashes,
and waned faced bathed in red,
and questions are risen,
to index the culprit who has long ago fled,
yet they realise a single one is not to be pointed,
for they all have, as time went by,
a piece of guilt adopted.
Codes of preaching are forced upon those of different minds,
ravaging all that on its way it might find,
and with remarkable abhor,
words immersed in hatred are spoken,
and suffering for this is their token,
waned faces all gaunted,
and in ashes covered,
let Death play its part on the theatre of tragedy of the whole decaying scene,
let it wield all that torments the soul
and throttles the mind with grotesque sins.
Fists covered in red and dirt hit the ground,
surfacing tears that drag them down,
further down into nothingness,
and whatever is left around is lugubriously gnawed at by loneliness.

RQ
Moscow
26/6/10