A lonely brier
came uphill
and
suddenly
all was cold
and
deathly still.
A lonely soldier lay there
covered with blossoms,
many and rare;
their fragrance could but
never dispel
many a fear
and a tear
that rose in sharp sequel.
They say he vanquished fifty foe
all alone
never stooped below,
took them on
till the very end,
till Death was satiated
and pain
laboured in vain.
The Gulmohar breathed
bloody tears on him,
below
the shadowy breeze sang it’s dirge
of death.
The Champaka cast down
its’ flowers
as if to say
“Lie still now, martyr,
for all is well;
the heights are taken
the enemy vanquished,
so lie still, martyr,
for all is well.”