Scars in the Soil
He enters in silence ruptured by thunder,
A harbinger drawn from the marrow of blunder—Steel slick with memory,
boots heavy with shame,
He is the soundless return of every ancient name.He drags the centuries behind him,
their wounds left unclosed,
Each battlefield churned anew,
each graveyard exposed.Where once peace whispered like dew across wheat,
He tramples hope under iron and scorched retreat.
War stalks with no allegiance, no lover’s soft hand,
Only red in the furrows, only salt in the land.He seeds famine
where orchards once dared to dream,
And love turns to hunger under his ceaseless regime.Every
mother’s embrace branded with the echo of shells,
Every prayer reworded by the clanging of hells.He is the shadow behind banners,
the poison in cheers,
The broken arithmetic of wasted years.
The earth remembers what the living would rather
erase—Boot prints pressed deep in the ancestral place,
Ash drifting through cellars, smoke carved in bone,
The rattle of teeth in a mouth not their own.Scars in the soil,
relentless and true,
Are written in marrow, in mud, in the dew—Each line a reminder,
each root a refrain,
That no field is fallow when watered by pain.
The treaties are signed, then buried in dust,
While widows wear black, and memory rusts.He offers no terms, no parley,
no rest—Just the hymn of the vulture circling the west.No house left unshattered,
no innocence spared,
Even gods go silent where war has declared.Villages blistered, cities torn raw,
All mercy erased by the law of the claw.
He rides down the centuries, fire in his gait,
Devouring nations and mocking their fate.Gold melted to bullets,
temples razed for spite,
He baptizes the morning in blood by night.There is no balance, no lesson,
no peace—Only the chaos that feeds,
the storm that won’t cease.A hunger that gnaws through every last creed,
Till the soul of the world is forced to concede.
He carves his initials in the bodies of men,
A legend of violence retold again and again.Every fatherless son,
every daughter made stone,
Carries the history that war calls its own.No winner stands tall,
no hero survives,
Only ghosts in the wheat and the hush in the hives.He is both history
and prophecy—never a friend,
Just the taste of ash and the promise of end.
Scars in the soil—the root never heals,
The harvest comes twisted, the fruit never feels.He moves on, indifferent,
when nothing remains,
But silence that shrieks and ruins that reign.And after he’s gone,
the world sits in shock,
Counting its losses on each broken clock.What grows from this silence is brittle
and thin,
The children born after will inherit the sin.
Yet in the dirt, the earth’s wounded keep score,
Whispering stories of what came before.A world left haunted,
still hungry for peace,
Echoing the footsteps that will not cease.He leaves no forgiveness,
just scars to recall—War’s legacy written in the marrow
of all.And as shadows lengthen, and graves reclaim stone,
War fades to a memory, but the scars are never gone.