BIBÁNKÉ (WHEN I CRY)

BIBÁNKÉ (WHEN I CRY)

Here lies the relics of times we once relished
Battered by torrents of the storms we created
Of the trees we felled and fences we pulled down
There stood Man's city, now a ghost town
The cackle of giggles, now gawks of hawking vultures
Savoring our carcass and the rot of our memories

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Here stands a man; victim, villain and hero
Bittered by the ruins of the war his hands wrought and fought
Of treaties broken and borders crossed
There stood a courtyard now graveyard
The shrieks of happiness, now the loudness of silence
Piercing our hearts; spears through our backs
...
Here stood a playground turn battlefield turn headstones
Buttered with slushes from slashes and streams from booms
Of primes made even and evens made odd
There lied the sleeping dog, awoken by the music of war
The call to arms, now no arms to call
Maiming our today and with it our morrows

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But if I cry (BÍMOBÁKÉ)?...
I cry not for the dead who fought life and won
Who found peace in the hands of war
Who hungers and thirsts not, nor pine for wine and mine not gold
Only for the living, who runs through life with a life not his
Toils on earth and tills the earth of what is the earths'
For life is loaned nor owned and what is of the earth is of earth
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When I cry (BIBÁNKÉ)?...
I cry not death but the dearth of life
For he who truly dies is he who truly lived
I cry for the hands taught to war and minds taught to ruin
Who takes not just lives but chances too
I cry at the goriness of imagery and music in my head
Of the grim sights and the chilling wails of lives cut down

@Bollutech

...............Poetry is life