The strings are tight, the dance is set,
Each step unfolds in cold regret.
A sword is swung, a heart is torn,
Yet none recall why war was born.

The puppeteer behind the veil,
Still laughs as kingdoms burn and pale.
The hands may shift, the faces change,
Yet nothing stops the play’s exchange.

Yet even puppets snap their thread,
Refuse to march where orders bled.
The war still rages, shadows grow,
Yet some break free from fate’s tableau.