As cold, as muzzle, of his gun
In the womb, of vile, wintry wasteland
Lay litany, of, some mother’s son
Where, he succumbed, to his, sin’s last stand!
Before, he fell, his, last recall,
Was not, the glory, of won wars
But a, tamarind tree, which, during fall
Gifted, life’s, sweet, sour, metaphors!
Whose bullet, had, on it, his name
Which stole, the last dream, of his heart
A groom-to-be, martyr, became
When Mozart, succumbed, to Bonaparte!
No funeral, just a, lonely prayer
Last sacrament, of, lost machismo
Faith of fortitude, fathomed, by fear
Vain Martyr, Sleeps In, Shroud Of Snow!
© 2022 Vikas Chandra