Oh! How I abhor the grandeur that is war,
'tis but little more than a politician's wasteful score,
who, dice dealing with aspirations fire,
make mute Aeolian harp or minstrel's lyre,
War! Mankind's disease and curse,
proud destroyer of this universe,
such empty smiles and hollow vows
speak of 'just war', that howls
like thunder foul spoken, defame honour's name,
black pernicious deeds that would a serpent shame.
Isolated, ivory-towered, they scarce know
of battle's carnage and its attendant woe
bourne by gallant youth who pray
one last breath of fragrant yesterday.
As self appointed monarchs, they never wooed
the senceless slaughter of youth's multitude,
and with little more than wistful sigh,
tell that honour lives, whilst youth must die.
With ill bound signature and callous nod,
cancelled treaties, created by a caring God,
immune to historic dirges rolling onward by,
cunning guile erupts from an immoral sigh,
such the earthquake of man's dry-eyed undertone
of murderous whispers, history thus has shown:
such, the avalanche of sin a silence brings,
like as Autumn leaves fall o'er lifeless things.