Poetry

His camouflage struck me the most,
As he lay with his face down,
In a river of murky water,
Murkier by his blood.
Far away a little boy smiled at his mother,
Not knowing grief on their heels.
Who did he fight for?
Who did he die for?
 
His masters camouflaged their dreams,
And flashed his hope before him.
They lay before him the targets,
The source of all his woes,
Like a magician pulls out rabbits from his hat,
Like the ads display discounts,
And he buys them readily.
Where are his colleagues moving to?
They see through his body,
There are no flowers to decorate,
No white linen to wrap,
They pick up what they can,
Pack up their backpacks,
Walk away like zombies to the battle next, 
 
They wept inside,
But felt omnipotent outside,
They could take lives,
But not sip coffee with their dear ones,
Widow women and rape them,
But not touch their wives sleep serene
Orphan children and abuse them,
But not join their children pillow fight,
Raze to the ground cities built over centuries,
But not play cricket in their neighbourhood,
All for someone's plastic dreams,
And their own hopeless hopes.