Never cedar, smelt of, doom to him
Now the lad, who lay, in vanity-box
How ’martyr’, is the, stark pseudonym
Of a, deified death’s, pure paradox!
He knew, not death, but martyrdom
And that chivalry, is the, game of gore
Until ‘martyr’, he did become
To learn, war is, vainglory’s metaphor!
A mother awaits, by the, lonely yard’s gate
No more, for the letter, of her boy
But the, fallen hero, of his state
Shrouded in flag, pride of, a sepoy!
Whom, mothers make, nations forsake
In the, fests of fear, fiestas of furor
To be, lost as, history’s keepsake
In Coffins Come Relics Of War!
© 2019 Vikas Chandra