By Yashvita Mehta
The spear in my chest has started to feel heavy.
The field is drenched in red, lying are remnants of a great struggle around me.
My swordsmanship was the finest, I was a warrior to fear.
Yet it's their flag on my land
That sways in the sky clear?
Am i now to live by the victor, with my head bent low?
Or should I let the spear drown me in my own blood and sweat?
Do I celebrate myself as a war survivor, who now lives as a cripple?
Or should I rest easy as a 'war hero' in my grave?
As i heave laboured sighs, I realise that kind of mercy is not for the brave.
Come to think of it , it isn’t just about war now , is it ?
The poetess beautiful portraits that one last inner monologue.
The poem is really deep if you read it the right way. Love the work by the poet. 👏