“Most martyrs, hail from, our brigade”
Crowed shibboleth, of my, regiment
The lad, who’d mused, “Where, glory is made,
If not, in the, farms of, war’s sacrament”!
How bewitching, was, death’s myth, until
Those, battle-games, ended, in despair
Real war, it was, where the rule, was to kill
Or, get killed, for faith, sans, the sin, of fear!
There’s, no petrichor, when gore, dissolves in dust
But the stink, of pride, and prejudice
Jingoism, is, political bloodlust
Fed by, martyrdom’s, manly malice!
At last, a bullet, with, my name
Freed from, mean man, that benign kid
Who knew, not war, beyond a game
Now knew, so well, When Die, I Did!
© 2022 Vikas Chandra