Those sounds lift me up,
haze form the gunpowder and rain,
I, laden those dead bodies.
Cemetery knoll in row by row,
What the years gone?
I watch in silence, those
blood wash by rain itself.
Camelcaravans transport the bodies,
that swathe in my Tricolour Flag;
their last pant, left me pro.
Blur of motion surrounds me,
down in the banyan shade,
in the bank of Yamuna
a soulful call, remind them
How alone?
Shovel by shovel,
they begin their slog.
That the death was dancing,
with a great laugh
My eye drops still plunge,
where he is there for me.
I.P. GOPIKRISHNAN PISHARODY
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-son-is-a-soldier/
