Rain drops fell on his back;
And red drops fell from his chest;
And there lay a soldier, fighting death;
To win the battle of his country’s honour;
Ah! There lay a soldier, a rifle in his dripping hands.
He knew he would soon cease to exist;
Leaving behind, a blind widow mother,
A young child, a wife (widow to be) .
He could feel the fire of the burning tears,
That would sprout out of his son’s eyes;
To know his father succumbed,
To such a dreadful plight.
He knew his kin couldn’t live without him;
They would die of grief,
Of hunger;
For he was the only one to earn them bread.
Oh! The blood dripped fast,
Faster than the rain;
He didn’t want to die,
But helpless was he;
He had himself chosen this thorns strewn path,
Of struggle for existence, to protect his motherland.
And then a bullet struck
On his forehead and lo!
His thoughts now froze;
And so did his blood.
His heart stood still;
And so did his soul.
A mother lost a son, a son lost his father, a wife lost her husband.
But the war was won, they say.
What victory is this?
A victory of merciless cruelty, of barbarism;
A sheer victory of death!
But a heavy defeat of mankind, brotherhood and life.
For many had died to win a meaningless war,
Of political prejudices and lifeless lands.
Yes many had died;
To win the battle that had brought nothing,
But grief to many a mother,
Many a son,
Many a widow wife.
Swapan Deep Singh
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-battle-of-a-soldier/
