The Lone Soldier (A poem)

THE LONE SOLDIER

They marched on a fateful day,
Many a song on their lips,
The weather cloudy grey,
On the day of the Apocalypse,

Charging through the town,
In tune to deafening blasts,
All green turned to brown,
As careless bullets flew past.

His comrades heartily cheered,
Revelling in their victorious feat,
Looked at the dead and leered,
Showing blood stained teeth.

He felt a shudder,
It was worse than he'd feared,
A griefstruck mother,
Her child in her hand, speared.

His rifle in hand,
An option to kill or pity,
He couldn't take a stand,
A diplomatic adversity.

Through the open doors he went,
Saw the child hiding under the bed,
And in the spur of the moment,
He shot him in the head.

Rooted to the spot he stood,
His face aghast and grim,
He then ran as fast as he could.
Not knowing what came over him.

From afar he looked back,
At the bullet ridden wall,
The burning haystack,
At the city's great fall.

He silently wept,
Amidst cheers and guns in the air,
For he was a lone soldier,
In the wake of warfare.

- Arvind, 4th June (1:40 am)