A word to the Axis

You have the power to create,
As shall not let you hesitate,
To crucify the bombed–dead,
‘Cause the dead has nothing to state.

His voice has no sound,
His pen lacks steam to frown,
Your color is white, his is brown,
And your writ runs across the town.

Your immense pride in your superior might,
Shall not let you a moment's insight,
How deeply unjust were you in your victorious fight,
When you scripted the narrative of my death,
And executed the script on my neck,
You then gave it a name – suicide!!

Long after my death though,
My eyes can see through the rubble -
You, sunk deep in the puddle of my blood,
Your stolen victory, meeting with history's mud!!