I. The Ritual
The oil that anoints the sick,
The oil slick gleamed, darker than blood.
The same potion consecrating the altar—
Guess the parallels stay.
Of sacrifice and devotion,
God or the motherland.
The priests once raised their knives in prayer,
Now generals sign their names in ink.
Both call it sacrifice, both promise salvation,
Both leave the altar slick with ruin.
In a world where goats were once baited to lord
In the hope of prosperous lives—oblation—
With goodwill came bitter, perpetual moans.
II. The War Machine
With firearms in hand, soldiers deployed as decoys
In a hoax of victory, moments falsely sweet.
What’s the point if no one’s left to taste it?
The lambs were once bound in silence,
Now the young are sent with hymns of war—
To die not for gods, but for gold,
To bleed not for faith, but for fields of black fire.
We march, though darkness clouds the sky ahead,
A dream of glory, now in ash and dust.
The flag of pride, now torn, its colors bled—
In endless war, we seek to place our trust.
Each footstep on the earth, a mournful sound,
As hollow cries from hollow souls resound.
For what is victory, when all is lost?
We die for peace, but at what final cost?
III. The Aftermath
The fields lie barren, souls with eyes askew,
No home to return to, no place to rest.
The scars of battle, worn in shades of blue—
Marks of broken lives, hearts torn from their chest.
The streets, once vibrant, now echo with loss,
A nation divided, counting the cost.
What is the price of peace, we ask,
When it’s buried beneath a bitter mask?
Behind each rifle, a kingdom stands tall.
Beneath the iron, women’s whispers fall—
A flash of fabric, rebellion wrapped tight,
Yet stitched to save, in wartime’s fleeting light.
The fabric scarce, yet worn with thought,
A thread that saved, as history fought.
Now draped in prints, its freedom caught,
In waves that drown what once was sought.
From cans of meat to snacks on every shelf,
The hunger’s gone—yet the hunger prevails.
From bullets fired to brands of newfound wealth,
The taste of war is swallowed, yet it stains.
IV. Benediction
Peace may be right, but it’s out of reach
In a world where war is bought and sold.
Morality’s a banner, torn and breached,
As leaders trade their truth for power’s hold.
The streets cry out, but still they’re left unheard.
Peace may be right—but not in this world, I fear.
To those who stood and gave what they could spare,
In fields of war, with hearts and souls laid bare—
Your courage, silent, echoes through the years.
Hail the ones who protect their lands,
We thank you now, beyond our pain and fears.
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