The Stillborn Love

by

Pain abates. A silent love zigzags
through his bullet wound. He is an

Indian mercenary fighting for the
Allies. He was born with a rusted

iron spoon in his mouth. Hunger
made him a soldier. He’s fit, fights

again for the alien cause. Her eyes
trigger his heart. For the first time,

he longs for an armistice. He seeks
for her in the surgical spirit smelling

reverie. A roaring war craft brings
him back from that French nurse.

A dumdum bullet pierces his chest
just before Germany signs! Streets

roar in rapture. Flags flutter above
the neglected agony. The stillborn

love is coffined. A war win is a
celebration over a variety wounds.

*World War memory - first prize winning poem
in the Lest We Forget Poetry Competition,
organized by Auckland War Memorial Museum.
First published in The Literary Hatchet.


Comments

Mohamed Sarfan's picture
Dear Poeter, Wartime wounds and bruises are traces that have not changed over time. Not every human being in this world; Each domain is just carrying different grammars and realities. All The Best My Dear Friend; Write More Congratulations

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