The Warplane Poem by Jinnuraine Jaigirdar

The warplane—meant to go to war,
Now brings a tempest in the name of reform.
The pilot's aim? A forested blur,
Lost in the trance of a misguided stir.
Youth swings in the hands of the young,
Yet the warplane strikes no enemy tongue.

O Warplane!
Radar mute, the power stick frail,
Wanders through skies, its mission pale.
No desert, no jungle, no field, no post—
Only wails around, like a ghost.
Its final target?
A humble school — a lesson lost.
On the spine of learning,
Hundreds of children sit in yearning.

Tell us, O warplane —
Could you not find a single criminal's den?
Why not strike an official's shield?
Or light a flame in the politician's field?
Why not roar upon the looter's roof?
Why always drift, misfire, go aloof?
Each time you miss, you cry aloud —
Your target lost,
You bomb the proud.

But pride lives not in walls of gold,
It sleeps in dreams the young ones hold.
You miss the guilty. You find the mild.
And history records:
You silenced a child.