War

I live alone, in a home painted with blood,

Blood spilled on that fateful mud.

It started with a tragic communal fight,

To the extent that people started deciding which religion was right.

But to avoid apocalypse someone had to intervene,

To light the flame, of the land again being serene.

One of those patriots was my dad,

He left behind nothing, but a life destined to be sad.

Those martyrs died because people never wanted to be friends,

But is it ever late, to make amends?

Those martyrs died because people made walls

Built of hate with a base as absolutely false.

My heart melted to hear all those innocent cries,

Blood of the same color, being spilled before my eyes.

Innumerable families were ruthlessly torn apart,

Yet war continued, even though deep inside was a beautiful heart.

A heart surrounded by powerful walls.

Built of hate and false perceptions as I said,

Walls which turned the color, of brown sand into dark red.

That blood spilled cannot be brought back,

But it teaches us the real reason why we slack.

If acceptance was what dominated our lives,

Rather than cruel and prejudiced knives.

If a soft heart bound us all

With a thread made of love rather than that hateful wall

Then I would never have lost my dad,

Nor would those who faced likewise, would ever have been sad.