By Harleen Kaur
He howls like a spirit possessedĀ
Dripping blood veils his vision.
He stumbles, teetering on the edge of a cliff,
The enemy keeps on firing.
His knees crash down on jagged stones
He is a blood sack of broken bones.
With one last desperate knife thrown,
In death, he joins the fallen, no longer alone.
Memories flow in a scintillating rush
A lovely girl kisses his cheeks.
An old man gently pats his back.
His mother weeps proud tears.
Oh! The sensation is too much to bear!
Both men fall, an anticlimactic end.
They dream of wonders in their death.
Unknowing, he killed without a name,
Never knowing the names of the blood he spilled.
Is this how he chose to leave?
Alone within walls, his wife grieves.
He dreamed of a sky dazzling bright,
Gold and blue with silver stars taking flight.
Did he find the utopia he sought?
Or the land still decays and rot?
Was his death a cause in vain?
Blue pains and no gains?
Didnāt once did he take a pause?
To ask if wars ever have a worthy cause?
Is this the world, he died for?
Where eyes are forever narrowed.
In disgust or judging,
In ridicule and sneering.
Is this the world, he died for?Ā
Where the one in the scars of battle,
Must wears full sleeves in public.
Is the truth that hard to see?
Is this the world, he died for?
Where beauty equates to pain,
Name of the gullible game,
Played for fallible fame.
Is this the world, he died for?
Where a female soldier is ignored,
Her courage considered chaos.
Her survival seen as weakness?
Her broken nose, a sign of ugliness?
Is this the world, he died for?
Where one who lost his leg,
Is mocked as disabled,
Left to shiver as he bled.
Is this the world, he died for?
Where the kids orphaned,
Roam in rags, torn slippers.
Along the blood soaked fur,
Of filthy wounded animals.
Is this the world, he died for?
A torn shoe lies on the torn road.
A diary, half burnt in the flaming trenches.
A family photo, marred by dirty boots.
Is this the world, he died for?
A pink bag, full of crazy sketches
Gifted as a luck charm,Ā
To make her father happy.Ā
Is now the haven of the mice army.
Is this the world, he died for?
A baby girl cries for her fallen father.
The mother cradles her and the horrors.
A boy screams for his brave big brother,
A numb girl at the window, awaits her sister.
Is this the world, he died for?
The soil once fertile,Ā
In fields of golden mustard,
Is left rotten and curdled.
Is this the world, he died for?Ā
Ashes wet and swept in blood
Flies hover near the hollow corpse.
A broken arm is dragged away,
To bury or maybe burn in hay.
Is this the world, he died for?
Losing his comrade to infection,
The government can't give medication.
The rich, wipe their noses with notes,
While soldiers die like dominoes fall.
Is this the world, he died for?
Where people snort drugs,
Like bliss from God's nectar.
Perished bodies in clogged drains,
Black water, black nights and black lanes.
Is this the world, he died for?
Where there exists a cost for life,
Or should I say, a cost for flesh alive.
People plundered like honeybee's honey
Red tears, red blood and red money.
Is this the world, he died for?
Where greed overpowers the beauty of love,
Where power is craved like an addict on loose.
Where selfishness breeds like rats, unhinged
Where insanity and madness are unnamed sins.
Is the world, he died for?
Are the hearts not dirty anymore?
Has the poison bled for good?
Or does it still fester like rot?
Is this the world, he died for?
Or did he dream of something more?
Did he envision white peace birds flying?
Carrying fresh olive stalks, as love offering?
Oh yes! The boy was a dreamer.
He thought love could existĀ
Anywhere and everywhere.
Well, it could exist. Couldn't it?Ā
If we keep quiet and listen.
Listen to the melody of dancing petals,
The stories and legends of the old and weary.
Listen the fall of ice on trees, in parksĀ
Listen the hoots of owl from afar.
Listen the scintillating serenades of stars.
Listen to the mellow of millions of flowers.
Listen, residents of this wonderful world,
Listen the nature and learn its hopeful accord.
The boy didn't die for the pity of the naĆÆve.
The girl didn't suffer for your weak cries.
Love is forever, alive in smiles, I promise.
Sacrifice is forever, alive in pleas, I promise.
And you will feed it flames, I hope you promise.
By Harleen Kaur
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