Beneath The Flags Poem by Emmanuel Arunee Mwanza

The earth weeps, from the horn of Africa's brow,
To the belly of West Asia, where ancient rivers flow,
And to the spine of Europe, burdened with scars—
A trail of sorrow, painted by endless wars.

Mankind, trapped in a spiral of grief,
Battles born of selfishness, beyond belief.
We march beneath colored cloth, stitched with pride,
Yet forget beneath those flags, the same red tide.

The blood we shed, a common thread,
Ties us together in a sorrowful spread.
But reason falters, like a flickering flame,
In the hearts of those who play this deadly game.

Our hands, once built to craft and create,
Now molded to weapons that foster hate.
We fail to see, through the smoke and fire,
That peace is the deepest human desire.

The land cries out, with each step we tread,
For the fallen dreams, for the nameless dead.
Yet hope still whispers in the winds that blow,
Across the battlefields where nothing grows.

Can we not lay down these burdens of war,
And let our hearts, once more, adore
The simple truth that we all share—
Beneath the surface, we're laid bare.

No flag can mask the blood we bleed,
No banner can justify this ravenous greed.
But if we listen to the earth's soft plea,
Perhaps one day, we will see—
That peace, like a river, can gently flow,
If we let love be the seed we sow.