The Favourite One ..."War"

No this is not the herald of victors,
No this is not the the laurel of heroes,
Neither this is the mourning of victims,
Nor this is the weep of ones who bled...
But this is the faint whistling of the Battlefield,
Soft grasses used to embrace its body once.But now,
It is draped by a blood-soaked blanket of carcasses of men,
Enveloped by a suffocating miasma of blood,dust and smoke,
Still it whistles a soothing symphony of peace and hope...
Also this is the boastful anthem of the Gatling-guns,
Glistened they were by the daylight,icons of power,touchstone of might.Yet,
Divested they have so many mothers of their sons,guiltless they stand tall,
No matter countless wives they have widowed,beamish is their innocent smile,
As they sing their suave anthem of superbia and pride...
This surely is the humming of the dilapidated majestic mansions,
Veins of periwinkle blossomed on it.Stood once mighty and tall,immune to fall.Still,
They entombed the mortal souls.Now the undead seek domicile in them,ruined now in mayhem.
Gained they have none,lost they have all.For the sins of the mortals,bemired they are,
And carelessly enough they hum about a new morning sun...
No this is not the herald of victors,
No this is not the the laurel of heroes,
Neither this is the mourning of victims,
Nor this is the weep of ones who bled...