Ink of the Fallen...

 

Ink of the Fallen

You don’t write with the ink of your veins,
For if you do, you’ll fade in chains.
Better write with the blood on the street,
Where echoes of war and sorrow meet.

Too much crimson stains the ground,
Too many screams, a deafening sound.
In the name of faith, in the name of pride,
Countless souls have bled and died.

The earth drinks deep, yet never full,
Steel and fire, the tyrant’s rule.
Swords clash, guns roar, banners rise,
Yet no peace blooms beneath the skies.

Fathers fall and mothers weep,
Children’s dreams drown in the deep.
History repeats, yet none recall—
What is left when kingdoms fall?

Names carved in stone, lost to time,
Heroes or fools, their fate entwined.
Martyrs rise and martyrs fade,
A cycle spun, a game well-played.

They wrote with blood, yet none could read,
Blinded by power, driven by greed.
A hundred wars, a thousand graves,
Still, none could learn, none could save.

Do not dip your pen in your own despair,
For death is a tale too eager to share.
Better write with the blood already shed,
The cries of the lost, the whispers of the dead.

Write of the child who lost his home,
Of the widow left to wander alone.
Write of the hands once stained with red,
Now trembling, reaching for peace instead.

Let your words be a swordless fight,
A flame that burns through endless night.
Write of love where hate once grew,
Write the past, so the world may rue.

No god, no king, no flag, no land,
Is worth the price of a butchered hand.
Let not the earth drink more of war,
Let blood be ink—let it spill no more.

You don’t write with the ink of your veins,
For if you do, you die in chains.
But write with the blood that cries in the dust,
And let the world remember—it must.