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There’s no fatigue in morgue as
pain evaporates from snow faces.
The pitiless mangled limbs are calm
as if etherized on tables.
Is any glory writ on their twitched faces?
The wise war-mongers lap it all.
Valour vanquished on cold faces;
Battle zones are still raging with fire.
Their kith and kin—a floating island;
Their lexicon drops the word ‘bliss’.
Cannon balls spit fire like dragons while
the jaw of death always waits for them.
To die is their sole way to evade
fake pride, counterfeit glory.
Snow will erase all pent-up pangs
There’s no fatigue in morgue… |
