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The Lone Warrior


Ipshita Chatterjee

In the battlefield, right on the front line,
Facing the hostile enemy, caught in the crossfire,
Stands the lone warrior.

They told him that it was
A battle of honour, a matter of pride,
A battle to undo the wrongs of the other side,
A battle to liberate the enemy of all sin,
And so, he stood, in the battle’s din.

They said that his valour will be decorated, his bravery exalted.
His life will be a legend for years to come.
Should he die, his body worshipped,
Adorned with medals, wreaths and flowers,
His sacrifice, in the name of the Almighty,
Will be for the greater good.
And so, in the battlefield, he now stood.

But now, as the enemy charges,
With cries, yells and zealous marches,
He looks beyond the front line to see,
A man, just like himself
A lone warrior, armed with a gun,
Ordered to shoot at everything, under the sun.

As the sun completed its daily pilgrimage,
The din of the battle died down.
His comrades, now bodies, lay in a pool of blood.
His enemies, mere corpses, covered with dust and mud.

The lone warrior heard a shot,
Felt a bullet pierce his chest,
Fell freely for a while,
 Prepared himself for eternal rest.

Lying there, under the sun,
In the battlefield, right on the front line,
Facing the blue sky and the setting sun,
He realised that neither side had won.

It was a battle of regrets, a matter of shame,
A clash of egos, a political game,
A battle, which, on bloodshed and slaughter thrived,
A battle which ended many lives,
It was frivolity at its best.
Praying for peace in a parallel universe,
 The lone warrior laid himself to eternal rest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
     
     
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