War is not a fresh idea.
It is older than the oldest fermentation
you’ve raised to your lips in the name of vintage whiskey.
It is as constant as physics claims energy to be,
never ceasing, only shifting form.
War is older than the whole of humanity,
and yet every time it slithers back
we pretend it is the first,
because pro-bono empathy costs less
than sponsored violence,
and humans still need to prove
they are better than anything else that breathes.
But violence is the only thing truly democratic.
It does not distinguish
between mother, father, or child.
It arrives like a hungry tide,
sweeping entire families whole.
Bullets cannot tell the rich from the poor.
Grenades do not ask for caste, creed or gender.
When death becomes religion, blood becomes worship,
and every breathing skin is lamb for the altar.
And if gods have taught us anything,
it is that they can never have enough.
What was once Auschwitz
became Syria,
became Afghanistan,
became Palestine.
What was once the ash of cities,
the rubble of villages,
the exile of countless souls,
has only changed names over time.
And still, the earth spins indifferently,
a billion lives circling the sun
as if corpses were not orbiting too.
War has become slogan and headline,
debate and performance,
and worst of all:
metaphor for the linguistic elites.
The hunter and the hunted
reduced to language,
because words are all the world ever spares,
while corpses pay debts in flesh.
The soil of old graves
is tilled to grow new ones.
Every silence between wars
is not peace,
only the inhale before
another detonation.
Even music learns this rhythm:
pause, then requiem.
We carve halos and horns
on whichever corpses suit the story,
but stone tablets crumble faster
than fresh gunpowder.
The air itself
negotiates the borders daily,
as easily as a finger through dust.
And when the coin is flipped,
both faces drip the same red.
Only the lettering changes.
And coins, after all,
were meant to be spent
until nothing remains
but their weight in bone.
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