By Akhilesh Nawale
There's stitches in my arms,
Its all turning red
"Retreat !"; both sides hit the alarm,
Its turning calm and dead.
It looks I'm all alone,
Someone's showing his bone
Wait, he looks just fine,
As I'm grabbing my carbine.
There's faith in his heart,
But he got no flames
Took out stuff from his little cart,
Shit, I'm forgetting God's names.
Checked twice I've got no cart,
The neck threads falling apart
Ah, I lost too much blood,
Got a carbine and no bullets' flood.
Last time to be a man,
Sticking the muzzle to my brain
Reminding myself-I can,
Oh, God's crying; its rain!
Am I passing out? Wait, its no rain
Oh No! The Bloke's gone insane
The hell, he's sprinkling that hypochlorite,
I am not stopping him, I'm a hypocrite.
The eyes are clear,
And I'm not dead
The threads all white,
Nowhere red.
Chills running through my veins,
He's sitting by my hand
Even to smile it pains,
We headed back to our “own” land.
By Akhilesh Nawale
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