From the trenches

December bandages my oozing wounds with frost
I lay awake in the trench to protect your deep slumber
It's filth dampen my clothes not my heart
As I write this, my heart wanders
My son perhaps longs for my warmth
My wife perhaps gets tired of cooking stories for him
Tell them, I live for them but I breathe for my motherland
The tricolour flying high washes every pain
Either I would let my tricolour fly high or return engulfed in its bosom
Tell my son if his father fails to make home,
He would return everytime the tricolour is held high.
Ask him to not lament but be proud,
To not shed a tear but keep his head high
For he had left as a father to be a son of his country
And soldiers don't die, they live in hearts.

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Sea (ii)

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Swings of a rhapsodic mind

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