New War, Old Rascals: The Heartless Harvest of Kali-Yuga

The trenches of the East grow cold, a story quickly traded,

As headlines find a newer flame, the old ones’ colors faded.

The meat grinder has shifted gears, the gears of greed and hate,

While patriotism masks the hand that seals a nation’s fate.

The Big Demon Heads are leaning back, they’re watching from the height,

As humans tear at human flesh in a dark and brainless fight.

They talk of help and sovereignty, of freedom and of pride,

While counting up the quota of the souls who’ve bled and died.

It doesn’t matter if the hair is grey or if the face is young,

The songs of war are heartless notes on a bitter, twisted tongue.

From Tehran’s streets to desert sands, the Animal is loose,

Tightening the neck of peace within a golden noose.

They drink the water Kṛṣṇa gave to keep their bodies whole,

But use the strength it offers them to kill a brother’s soul.

They see the sun, they see the moon, but never see the Sign,

Forgetting that the very dirt they claim is all Divine.

The bill is due, the karma’s tall, the balance must be met,

For every death on the plate, the world is deep in debt.

You cannot feast on violence and expect a peaceful sleep,

For as the rascals sow the wind, the whirlwind they shall reap.

The only Iron Dome that stands, the only Nuclear choice,

Is drowning out the drums of war with a transcendental Voice.

Until we sing Kṛṣṇa's names, glorify Him wide and high,

The brainless, heartless killing is the only fad we buy.