He lay there…
On the rocky path,
Did he choose the highest bed,
No made of luxury,
Not even comfort,
With a worry of his mother’s soul..
Slowly did they walk,
Who were better than him in aim,
But poorer than him in goal..
A gloomy sight to watch was it,
Not a single eye left to dry.
As did he try to wake,
From the slumber his bed brought to him,
Slow was it,
As dead as silent..
No one dared to move..
As he chose to rise up himself…
With bloodied hands,
That just held his heart.
Will he win, and get up and hoist,
His mother’s symbol on the barren land?
Or will he rot like just another soldier…
On the wars, that named them ‘Martyrs’