Sons Of The Lord Poem by Chandrashekar a posy poet

As every moment passes,
So are the days and decades
While so called sons of the lord
Tear the veil of virgins
And smear the layers of origins
Shred the scent of innocence
And spray the rain of violence
With zest to conquer
And yearn to reign all over
All in the pursuit of greed and creed

Yet, all grow grey and bald
Fortunately
None can ever pause or freeze
May crib at every season
Perhaps for every reason
And wander like mad
Until each one drops dead
By chance or by choice
If few dare to seize the moment
Are for sure cut above the rest
May even make it momentous
Serving prudent purpose of the birth
Thence by and far fare better
And may their breed be brood beyond boundaries