You're gone

There's blood all over your uniform,

And bits of it on your beard,

I begged you not to grow a beard,

but you said, it looks cool

And believe me, it does look cool

All the neighborhood beauties cluster around you,

Beautiful tears rimming their lustrous eyes,

I wish you could get up, and see them,

Dabbing their flushed cheeks,

With a laced handkerchief,

Mother is sprawled on the ground,

She embraces your lifeless body,

Father is motionless; his skin a drab grey,

For his prince lives no more,

I stand with trembling fingers,

I'm sorry for stealing your ball pen, 'O' brother,

The golden ball pen that the army gave you,

I wish you would wake up,

And give me a good shake,

And a gentle scolding as well,

I bend over you,

The serene expression on your face pricks my heart,

Yet, what grieves me the most

Is the sight of the gun in your belt-buckles,

The cold nozzled gun,

Devestates me,

Yet what hurts me the most,

Is that,

When I bend over, to put the pen in your pocket,

I cringe,

For the gun is still loaded