Will quiet folk be sent to war, a hundred years from now?
Enslaved and duped by profit’s men to take a sordid vow:
Detailing their new animus against an unknown other,
betrayed, downtrodden, sold-out twin, far-off foreign brother.
Which powers will lock horns to gain a bigger slice of pie?
No wait for wrong before revenge, not even eye for eye.
A threatened nun or missile scare, the details matter not;
McGuffins these, a strained device, to push along the plot.
While diplomats negotiate, the leaders state instead
They’ll fight to the last drop of blood which other men can shed.
And when the flow of bodies stems they’ll send the young and old
to fill the pit which can’t be filled until the world’s bled cold.
A hundred years since we were told a war would end them all
But that was just the starting-gun of never-ending calls.
Slaughter in perpetuum, conveyor belt of death,
the power games of empire, relieving us of breath.