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Cannons boom, bombs explode 
The world is the home of war
Lieutenants give crisp commands 
To their soldiers, weary and sore 

The tribunal sits in their gilded halls 
Drinking their whisky tea 
The senior most is ninety years old 
The youngest is seventy three 

They take pride in stoking this war 
‘Tis the battle of righteous men 
Sending sons and daughters to fight 
While they cackle in unison 

There’s chaos and killing; a dread that is stilling
The conflict they’ve wrought makes no sense 
The old men don’t care, as war trumpets blare
Charged by the flourish of their pens 

Soon the booming cannons and the bombs
Will end their brutal repartee  
Of slashing and slaying - their bloody tribute paid
To their masters across the seas 

The dead will be many, they’ll lie in the mud 
Young soldiers from both sides, together 
The grief and the pain will be the same 
In the broken hearts of all the mothers

War is Jang* is война* is Guerre*
There is no pretty word for it
That can honour or extol or purify  
The endless sea of blood it lets 

As cannons boom, bombs explode 
And the world crashes and burns 
The inflection point for humankind 
Is now at the cusp of no return. 

Jang/ война/ Guerre: The word “war” in Urdu, Russian and French respectively.