The ache of Nations
Sweet symphonies play,
While the world is destroyed in a day.
Soldiers sweep the fields,
but the orchestra never yields.
Boys and men are blown to sand,
While the Maestro just waves a hand.
Women cry upon blood soaked shores,
as tears are shed for mediocre scores.
We are puppets on a string,
Waging wars we didn't bring.
Keeping power upon a shelf,
That each man thinks is for himself.
Millions have fought and died,
But still we aren't satisfied.
How many bodies must we break
before we realize what's at stake?