Winds blew as she prepared to leave,
but they bid her not to do so.
They carried the warnings of peril,
they evoked a sense of bad omen.
Mother prayed, "Oh Almighty, keep her safe. She ventures into unknown terrain."
Father said, "Dear, worry not, for our daughter is intelligent and formidable."
Clad in camouflaging army attire,
Pride in her face, anticipation in her eyes,
Stood she, ready to take down battles,
Embodiment of sheer courage and will.
She bid farewell to all, far and near,
She promised to return by fall next year.
She packed up courage and clothes,
and set off to guard her home.
Years passed, people aged, her parents old and wrinkled.
Desperately awaiting her return.
She'd promised to write, which she often did,
She'd promised, all of which she fulfilled,
Except for hers, to return at fall.
Fear and dread flooded their hearts.
The lover asked, "Pray tell me, God...
Is my love not strong enough?
Yes, it is, I believe. Enough to bring
her back from the borders of death."
The parents pleaded, "Just tell us, dear.
We know you're out there and hear,
We know you have to keep us safe.
Eternal martyr in yourself, you claim."
The son cried, "Mummy, come back!
I am dying to see your beautiful face!
Daddy says you're a soldier, fierce and free;
But you're just Mummy for me."
She kept her promise of patriotism,
of valour and determination.
She lived her dream of joining the army
and surrendering herself to the Nation.
She had the choice of leading a life,
of utmost comfort and frivolity;
But she chose to run down a hard path,
which immortalised by Humanity.
Then, one day she did fulfil,
her promise of return.
Clad in a white bandage all over,
she arrived at home, blood of glory oozing out from her great self.
Her eyes closed, her being static,
her body held firm and pale.
They carried her in a coffin, as
her beloved shed each, a tear of grief.
They saluted her with pride.
She was heard by them saying,
"Fear not, for I shall return."
The winds bore testimony to her tale,
a journey of grit and passion true.
They slowly made her face, an impression in the clouds, behold!
She lives there, smiling forever...
And everyday, every moment, every time, ever since;
she is heard returning, as a little baby girl, ready to face her own battles.
Every woman is a warrior, descendant from the soldier's blessed existence.
YOU ARE READING
A Warrior's Songs
Poetry"I believe that Poetry is the aesthetic act; that poetry is not the poem, for the poem may be nothing more than a series of symbols. Poetry, I believe, is the poetic act that takes place when the poet writes it, when the reader reads it, and it alwa...
