The uphill in the dark, although steep,
Has failed to stop him from riding
His horse upon it.
The Samurai of the east,
With sheer hardwork and focus,
Dedication; an unbalanced temper
For courage, for a will thats profound,
For love and faith andso for victory
Has built his flesh that resembled
An armor, one of a kind,
Which would consume ages
For it to be made carefully, artistically!
The rhythmic gallop loses its smoothness,
And so his trains of thoughts
Influenced with those ruthless images
Of laments arising from deep within
Of every woman, and children;
Of the eyes of the young men
That carry fear, agony and regrets, and tears;
Of the burnt pleasant houses, that has
Rice flour drawings in front, and that
Would innocently greet anyone who would near it;
Of clueless cattle, that would ever
Pity upon its birth of not being a human;
Of banyan trees that have leaves,
Which exhibit a deadly dance,
In the breeze born out of fire;
Of the town in the enemy territory
That has lost its anxiously preserved serene cheer!
A feel of guilt gathers in every breath
And is played the flute with such air with care,
Spreading its loneliness everywhere!
The breezy winds stand still, and with time
They melt down on the sand, listening!
So does his bravery, sinking in a lament, trembling his fingers,
Filling throughout in the starlight an unknown remorse.
In the name of culture, language, power and religion,
Poor people, aren’t they divided and fed with the essences of hatred?
And how well crafted is the system with a few rulers
Their majesty, as they call themselves, with a blindfolded army?
And what’s the worth of a passionate individual, a soldier,
With his innocent soul that forever weeps in guilt, tasting bitter,
For the thing called – Nationalism…?