Our barrack is filled up of parched lipped-wolves
Full of sweet bitterness in arid desperation for food and water,
Macho hands hold their patched guns
professionally high above their sagged shoulders
with the swagger of the Spartan army,
Waiting for a tinkle of the master’s trigger
To pull a century of triggers.
Our barrack is mute today!!!
Soldiers long gone on death errands
The cantonment once a buzzing hive of merriment
Now a stinking hive of the dead
Our guns are now harmless, our bullets mere pebbles in the bloody field.
The road is scarlet-red, richer than the tantalizing color of fresh tomato paste,
Gallant hands lay fallow as dead ants
Having succumbed to the vicious heroics of the valiant vampires from the Barbaric Republic
The muted warnings of our less-sophisticated ancestors which were turned down by our esteemed predecessors, inclusive of our own muted inexperience,
A poor sham for our own precedent successors.
In the battle of yesterday
Bravery was callous crucifixion
Cowardice was admired
Louder than the racks of a thousand bombs