After a mutiny charge of a group of soldiers on terrorism
as the odd smell of asphalt
in the incongruous road of his heart,
a soldier sniffs death.
He feels it as the snap of life
from a lanterned night;
he gets his death as a token
of gift from his country,
he gets death as a token
of love from his country –He gets death
A soldier wants to drink his last cup
of coffee as reeking as it is,
as last swill from his beloved country
a coffee of blood, as a token of medal
when I ask my soldier,
“where is your insignia of triumph?”
slump-shouldered, he raises his head
like a conquered hero
his face, a tempest storming me to quietness –
words start forming without its sounds.
Tomorrow, a soldier will be wreathed with death
as banquet of honour from his fatherland.
He shall grow ghostly wings,
his face shall whiten like snowflakes
and be filled with gleam
like the sun. His legs shall be tail of rocket launcher,
his song might be plaintive
but a soldier is getting his death
tomorrow. Under the roundtable,
a death awaits a soldier patiently.
A soldier gets a wrap of death
and pockets it within the prison of his soul
to let it mature till the bullet
opens another life for him. Crossing
through Konduga, a soldier generously encounters his doom
as a simple theory of words. His gun, mutinous now,
to fire or say a metallic fiery word.
A soldier is going to get his death
soon, a soldier will get his death
the death he has long traded with
soon, he is going to get it as a parcel of parting
as a fair for his broken bones and drained blood.
Soon a soldier will get his death
as a simple commission of his martyrdom.
a death will be written on a simple piece of paper
and a soldier will get it.