Dilantha Gunawardana


The White Flag


The moon turns sanguine red
A reflective coat of rouge
As she gazes below at the raging war
Limbs floating on brooks of blood
Trenches mere land fills of pealed flesh
Even fogs of napalm levitating
Like sprinkled salt on an asphalt coated night
Cylinders of canons perpetually erected
Even the furrows of gun barrels
Like a virgin lad in a brothel
As soldiers walk in troupes and garrisons to thickets of war
With salty palms and sable fingertips
Drenched of sweat and strewn with blood
Celibate warriors starved of corporeal affection
With no woman in sight for the next hundred miles
Yet fighting with an engorged valor, even an inflated audacity
Like a crusading martyr battling Saladin's wrath
As blood sprinkles like a fountain
From torn jugulars of tenacious souls
Serpentine snipers prey on life with ruthless precision
As the psalms of the firing cannons
Blend with the requiems of the soil
To honor the shattered rampart of youth
Devoured by the acrimony of erect barrels
A valley of zombies robed in perpetual white
Carried by angles with wings with halos alight
Then amidst the fogs of gunpowder
One can barely see the hoisting of a white flag
A rare sign of life in these ravines of war
Symbolizing a farewell to arms
An arrest to the poisonous bloodshed
A mortifying defeat in a bloody battle.........
Yet the first sign of cessation of a protracted war

Submitted: Monday, April 22, 2013
Edited: Friday, September 27, 2013

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

A poem on war

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