“World at War: A Ballad of Blame and Fire”

A shadow moved where peace once lay,
The sky turned black at break of day.
The doves that flew now burned mid-flight,
As nations plunged into endless night.

The war drums sounded, slow and grim,
And history watched with tearful limb.
For in the West, a storm took shape,
In suits and silk, behind the drape.

Donald Trump, with fury drawn,
Lit the match before the dawn.
For power, pride, and secret gold,
He bartered futures, young and old.

Not for the people, nor the flag,
But for one man across the crag—
Benjamin Netanyahu, ghost in flame,
Pulled the strings with no one’s name.

“Strike the East,” the whisper said,
“And all your foes will soon be dead.”
And Trump, with ego blind and wide,
Cast truth and reason to the side.

He watched the maps and painted red,
The oil, the blood, the tears that bled.
A single name lit up the screen—
Ali Khamenei, marked unseen.

The target locked, the sky grew still,
And drones took flight with silent will.
The stars above, they held their breath,
As justice masked itself in death.

But this was no defense of peace,
No call for war to bring release.
This was ambition, sharp and cold—
A madman’s game, a tyrant’s hold.

America wept as bombs did fall,
Not on the field, but in the hall.
The people screamed, “What have we done?”
The end had come, the war begun.

Europe trembled, Asia cried,
Africa watched as balance died.
Nations fractured, borders broke,
The planet drowned beneath the smoke.

Markets crashed, the children starved,
The oceans boiled, the forests carved.
The bombs did more than shred the land—
They burned the dreams we once had planned.

And all for what? A private deal?
A phantom grudge no man could heal?
For pride? For rage? For whispered lies?
For thrones beneath collapsing skies?

The UN stood, then sat in shame.
No one dared to speak his name.
For Trump had tossed the world to flame—
And walked away, denying blame.

But history sees with clearer eyes,
It doesn’t bow to alibis.
It marks the face, it names the cost,
It counts the lives and what was lost.

A king who crowned himself with fire,
Lit by another man’s desire.
A war not fought for right or wrong—
But ego masked as justice’s song.

So now we write, with ash and pen,
Of how the world came to an end.
Of how one man, with unchecked power,
Destroyed the Earth in half an hour.

And in the rubble, one truth remains:
That peace will die if bound in chains.
That when one soul, with wrath unbent,
Acts for one, not all—it’s punishment.

May future voices sing with care,
Of leaders just, and moments rare.
But let this tale remain a scar:
The day the world was dragged to war.
By ego vast, and vision flawed—
A crimson throne, by ruin awed.

And may they say, with every breath—
That justice built on lies breeds death.