in

He Was Our Martyr

A bloody elbow discarded from its heart

Roped in green soldier robe

Lay limp in litharge*

Hand that guarded the crown of nation

That fought and loved

That trembled yet thurled* (evil men)

Its neurons now run rife while brain yearns a vengeful strife.

A woundless pains shouts aloud (from bereaved crowd)

To wake them up awaiting the shroud

His pupil (of eye) shrinks to death

His heartstring stammering to utter life

His body torn but his courage squealed

To tear into demons

For whom even Hell is sealed.

His dreams now shut in eyes

His putrid body now craves the grave

His livid face now haunts his kin

What shame if his sacrifice goes in din?!

* Litharge- fumes of bomb and gases

*Thurled – thwarted and hurled

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Written by Sanya Khetarpaul

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