Tony Chiado

War’s a history of the poor
Dying over drunk disputes of the lords
Bodies turned to food for the worms in the floors of the forests
At its core it’s death to the souls God adores

Faint whispers of a kid in a freeze with stolen boots
Just a prayer to elude
Under cover of night, until his dawn starts anew

He sees his face in his kills
He hears their shrieks ’til he wilts
Overcome with grief and guilt
His soul tortured by the blood he spilt

War is for profit and the soul is commodity
Strategic maps drawn with the blood of sons like you and me
Eight in the morning, mothers cry for undue eulogies

Cold comforts beget a sense of inhumanity
Indifference as tragedy strikes the humblest family
Peace be with you between pews, but how can it be
When our taxes pay to shed God’s forest canopy

Child soldiers martyred on the margins, the insanity
War is nothing less than catastrophe, calamity
The flames of war fanned by ego and cruel vanity
Our conscience slowly atrophies as we succumb to apathy