Wrapped in a shroud the man in the coffin, lay buried under a clod of earth, his spirit hovering incessantly; a cloud pouring rain asked, why the Iraqi children were crying out in horrific pain? The essence of camphor questioned the existence of chemicals, when the entire world (Blix included) had cried, ’No war!’ The sea splayed angrily against the rocks, mangled flesh and armoury seething within its debris. the moon waned its luminous glow, unable to bear the continual flow of human blood on earth; there were no dearth of voices from cyber space crying, ‘colossus brute watch your pace!’ but you strode on —-unfazad; the smell of oil a perfect foil for your plans. Slowly, you reduce land to territory, a people to subject, creating minefields in minds; white doves flutter helplessly as your men embark on an anarchy, a scarring of the psyche that history will never forget nor the people ever relent. And the night lay engulfed in sorrow, awaiting a greater dawn tinged with a pink hope in the morrow, when the diminished people would rise, spelling the demise of power; to this hour, the sun dedicated its bloody sunset.

— Sagari Chhabra