The Bare Sabres

Cdt. Anshul Roy,(XI)
RIMC
This is a grand tale,
A tale beyond judgment.
A story, a legacy,
That refuses to fade.
They came in hordes,
With daggers, light and fast.
Of guns and swords,
That worked till the very last,
Then there was blood,
And pain,
And more blood.
The daggers stained in red.
The guns shot, and swords swished.
Working till the very last.
They cried for mercy,
But the other ‘they’ moved on.
Suffering death-
The harbinger of loss.
The child aged all but four
Innocence dripping, stood
Somewhere on the road
Blood dripping, headless he later lay
The swords swished, and the guns shot,
A fire
On the thatched roofs
All a pyre, a flamy pyre.
They found me,
All alone-
Somewhere in the house.
Death, then looked me in the eye.
Death, then stabbed me,
And shot me
And moved on.
Death had finally won.
I lay there,
Lifeless as a corpse.
Rather,
I lay there-a corpse.
Amidst hundreds more,
The stench of drying blood,
The rotten wounds,
The pang of death.
And in this world,
Full of life, and death.
There was nothing
but a quite uproar