Alisa J S
A lone swordsman steps out
Unprepared to face this bout.
A quivering hand faces his foe,
The sharp knife still in tow.
A couple of puffs to ready himself
Insistent against returning his weapon back to the shelf.
The first strike lands
A shiver runs down his hands,
Eyes sting at the sight
The victim, in a dire plight.
Sharp blade still wedged in
The feeling finally sinking in.
Tears build up, a blade thoroughly stuck
Mind completely amok.
He wiggles the knife out,
And tosses his head back with a loud shout,
“Aah, this warrior can cry
But no enemy to usurp shall they even try.”
Muffled laughter erupts from behind,
The stranded warrior is sure the voice is unkind.
“Chop off the head, chop off the feet
Strip the body, bare and neat,
Then shall you find your quest
Proves to be nothing more than a test.”
Surely you jest, sweet sister mine
Please keep your niceties in line, today is my day to shine.
Words go quiet and unsaid
His hands wander to the body lay dead.
Off with the head, off with the feet,
Stripping the body, bare and neat.
Burning eyes face the voice
Now fading away like a distant noise.
Words sound from afar,
“Let your tears be no bar.”
A quick hack with his blade again
The body slices open, a blessing, amen.
Blinded by flowing water,
Still his arms did not saunter,
Blow after blow landed
Onto the body he had just been handed.
“Chhotu”, sounds another voice this time
“This is not your war” it chimes.
Gentle hands glide above his war-torn ones
“This isn’t a place for my grandsons”.
He pulls his weapon back,
The gentle hands go completely slack.
“Dadi, this warrior shall fight his own battles”
“Nonsense, lest there be tattles”.
The fire within reflects
On those runny eyes, completely neglect.
Silent protests sound from within,
Both sides unwilling to give in.
The gentle eyes attached to those gentle hands glide over the warrior’s face
They finally decide to play their ace.
“Let me bring your mother”
The gentle eyes confident like no other.
“Don’t bother, I shall bring her” the unkind voice rings
As she springs off like a child looking for swings.
The warrior looks back to the body unmoving
Smiles at his work, completely approving.
He draws his sword in and gathers
The remnants of the body lying in scatters.
No escape, no reprieve for his eyes
While surrounded on all four sides
“What’s taking you so long my son, surely
You haven’t been defeated poorly”.
Those gentle eyes turn a sharp gaze
Towards the woman who just spoke such a phrase.
“Truly, this is abuse of power”.
“Why? Is he a delicate flower?”
The warrior beams, the fruits of his labour he offers
In front of those who scoffer.
The mother accepts, the victim’s body now in shreds
Ends up in the curry pot, surrounded by staring heads.