It was a battle a bloody silent war with no gun shots’ from enemies neither the noisy planes that shoots up sky,
You can’t see people carrying guns and explosives because it’s not a war that can be seen.
The voiceless cry of a weeping angel
That loses her way to sound the trumpet.
The boy who can’t even hurt a fly
Got his hand tainted by blood neither of his enemy nor some else’s.
The artist who painted that flower by the creek,
Can’t even hold his paint brush, splashes a dark paint in his soul.
Can’t you see this silent war ruined many?