April 18, 2007

Who is next?

The guns of battle sound all around me,
A thousand cannons and a million guns
Each more devastating than the one before.
Death is free and is running amok,
The faceless man on the other side,
A side not your, containing enemies,
One that you have never met before,
Nor shall you ever meet again.
Madness to kill a man, unknown
A reason to do you have none.
What sin did he commit my dear friend,
The only sin, that he is from the other side.
He shall never see the face of his child
Holding on to its mother frail hands,
As they sit up looking at the winding road
Waiting for the day their love shall return.
But due to a stray bullet from your gun,
Those lonely eyes that scan the horizon
Shall keep scanning for the rest of their lives,
Searching for a soul that shall never return,.
The blood that stains your hands now,
A deed committed in the name of patriotism,
A word for frenzied murderous fervor,
You shall never wash it off your soul.
I am no better than any of those murderers,
I too have taken lives, some died before
Others still living, wishing they were dead
Worthless lives they lead, waiting to die.
Now I sit here waiting for the night
To come and envelop my tortured life.
Give me respite from all the killing
A time to rest, to plan whom to kill tomorrow.


1 comment:

Suchitra said...

I can understand what you feel.I vivdly remember a certain morning sometime in March/April 2002. I had my final exam in History that afternoon. In the morning, I read an item in the newspaper about three American soldiers who had died in Iraq. They had just been deputed to Iraq (America had just started its strike on Iraq post Sept 11) Three soldiers, fighting in strange land for God knows what, dying when they could very well have had their life. I wept, not for the soldiers (who I consider foolish) but for the people to whom these three soldiers were dear. One of the soldiers was just nineteen then. What a life to die, and for what??

The same afternoon, I spent an hour writing about the causes of some War of the past.

All the while knowing there is no cause, no reason, for such a death of a man.