In Times of War

By Harold Bankerlang Thabah

 The air crackles, not with rain,
 but the static of impending doom.
 War whispers, a serpent in the ear.
 Where do we crawl?
 The common clay, the unnoticed faces
 seeking shelter in the concrete veins,
 a jungle built for survival,
 now a cage waiting to be sprung open.
 Who will shield the innocent,
 those eyes wide with confusion,
 ears too young to understand the language of hate?
 Who will comfort the trembling hands,
 the stories etched on wrinkled faces,
 elders who have seen too much already?
 Will the music fade,
 the drums of war silenced,
 the trumpets of greed muted,
 before the final note?
 Will they find a seed,
 a spark of hope,
 in the ruins you leave behind?
 Is there a hand above, a silent observer,
 to break the fever,
 to whisper peace into the roaring chaos,
 Or are we alone,
 lost in the wreckage,
 of a world consumed?