In the shadowed vale where echoes wail,
Silent cries thread through splintered trees,
War paints its canvas with the blood of fate,
And hope is a ghost lost in flame.
Fields once green lie under ashen skies,
Heroes forged from loss and despair,
Yet here we stand—fractured souls,
Each breath a testament to our plight.
Adversity grips with iron hands,
Gnarled fingers clutching at our hearts—
The clangor of battle drowns the truth,
Just men turned monsters in the night.
Where justice hides behind veils of smoke?
A lullaby sung to forgotten graves?
All feels futile beneath a teeming dread,
A dance macabre in this tragic waltz.
Yet still we seek among the ruins’ sighs,
For mirth may shimmer through sorrow’s tears,
In the darkened corners where shadows dwell—
Is there solace when the last trumpet calls?
MARYANN BOSAH 