By Mayra Rana
Butterflies swarm the battlefields,
They settle atop the quiet, sickly corpses,
Blood stained dust particles stick to the wings,
As they beat the funeral march.
The wine stained sand is littered with swords,
Half-alive men cry out last words,
They do not swear to seek revenge,
But rather, apologise as guilt rips them apart.
Widows weep and daughters charge, screaming,
Agony tears a hole in the tapestry of the suppressed,
Bloodshed has a certain beauty to it,
Bittersweet is the pain of loss and revenge.
Call it Wynorrifia if you may pledge to,
Human nature makes us monsters, I'm aware,
Sickly pleasure lurks behind these masks,
Hidden by tears and smudged, bloodshot eyes,.
Grossly manipulative, its the human thought,
Don't pretend you remain untold,
We are creatures who rain chaos,
Somethings are meant to never change...