By Subhajit Mitra
The humanity is at stake, mother.
The war machine tolls death at every hour.
The concert of war reeks and smokes—
Men indulged in frequented insanity.
They push beyond their limits to wreak
Havoc—and we do the same in return, mother.
Tons of projectiles plummet over us,
The incendiary devices set the cornfields
Ablaze—the golden wheat and maize
Turn into charred remains.
The scorched Earth’s frame lies close to Tophet.
They strafe and bombard our elegant cities
To ashes—and we do the same in return,
Pulverizing theirs, mother.
We pierce through dense canopies and boggy lands,
Unaware of the malarial parasite,
Cross bridges over breakneck rivers,
Pass over seas of mud,
Wrestle through booby traps laid
By our foes—
Take respite under wrecked churches and abbeys.
Hope rests with a malicious smile, mother.
Hunger and starvation befriend us.
Forest grams and peas, yams and tapiocas
We feed on—
Quenching thirst with soiled waters.
The ceaseless rains of October cramp our headway,
The November fog bedims the line of sight,
And December’s blizzards do the worst of all.
We wander through lands unknown.
Our tanks roar through terrains,
Obliterating enemy lines.
Our guns butcher mankind.
Our artillery reverberates—
Shattering the aerosphere.
Our planes bomb the countryside,
Ensuing exodus.
At times, we grapple like fanatics
To liquidate resistance—
And they do the same in return, mother.
We search for adversaries in the trenches and bunkers.
The trenches are horrendous, mother—
Dark and mazed, they reek of effluvium.
The malignant gases they spray
Choke our larynx.
The foreboding ambush
Hangs around us.
The loss of comrades in this great war
Engenders dolor.
Combatants endure terrible sacrifices, mother—
Some are buried with no rituals,
Their badges we stack.
Others lay forsaken.
Lunacy! Lunacy! Vicious men we are.
Upon my return from the front, mother,
You will wonder how I’ve changed.
Once a teacher at high school—
Now a plague upon the race.