The Pawns of War

By Smriti Ramesh

The moon shimmers its soft glow

Upon the turbulent waves,

They lash and lash against the lone ledge

Until nothing lasts but weathered remains.

His ears ring with the distant echo,

Of bullets ripping through the icy night;

Amidst the skin-curling shrieks and cries,

Escapes an unnoticed sob, drained of its fight.

Tears streak down his petrified face,

As he craves his mother’s warm embrace,

For surely, she would have cradled him despite,

The hues of crimson that blanket his frail frame.

It was a crucial sacrifice, they’d said,

In sustaining his flag’s proud flutter.

But really, was their honour in fighting for a country,

That adorned its innocent with guns and grenades in the name of victory?

Starved for security,

From the horrors of brutality;

For he was nothing more than cannon fodder,

In a game of vengeance indifferent to its casualties.

As a spray of the sea caresses his cold cheek,

His glazed eyes reflect the tranquil moon they cannot see,

A mere pebble in the sea of victims,

Of a world devoid of conscience and morality.

By Smriti Ramesh