The Unknown Soldier

I do not have to know your name
To remember your memory;
Nor do I have to know which country
Mothered and reared you to your death.

I will not make a song and a dance of it:
Pining a huge blood red poppy on my chest
And attending etiquetted ceremonious Sundays
To show my concern of your dark days.

I will not play into false sensationalism,
Or get involved in peer temptation;
To be frank friend, I'll rather forget
This vile side of man's conflict!

I do not have to know your name
To remember your existence,
As long as there is a war around,
People like you will never go aground!



Remember us not for what we did
Nor for what we really achieved
But think of us for what we stood,
Fighting for the betterment of the world.

Remember us not for our bravery,
The medals and the salutations,
For every one of us who fell
Many innocent bystanders tolled the bell!

Remember us not for our duty
Nor the many heroic deeds we performed;
We did what was required of us
To the best of our ability.

Remember us not, for we are remembered every month
Whenever a soldier fells or a chopper drops down,
Or lobbyists in favour of Insaniyat
Are at the throat of the government.

Remember us for our ordeals:
The needless carnage of men and women,
The high ridges of our mindly and bodily scars,
Never to leave us, nor ever to rest us in peace!


Remember us the unfortunate ones
Innocently caught within war’s desolation,
Living for the sake of being given a birth:
We need both your remembrance and help.

Remember us, the helpless ones!


The Last British WW1 Soldiers

Only few are really blessed with longevity,
And you Harry Patch and you Henry Allingham had been one of them;
Even sleeping at the jaws of Death,
Death was not able to snap your wretched body!

You were men of three centuries,
Soldiers of two Great Wars
And had eyes to many scythes of the Reaper's
Yet you outlived your times
Your children's and their children's.

You surprised us Soldier Patch-
Krisha would not have been pleased with your conduct-
For breaking the warrior's sacred code:
Instead of killing the foe bent on taking your life
You would rather return him home wounded.

You are right Mr Patch: how right are your thoughts*,
Most wars are fought for conflicts of self-interests,
And more often led by insanous leaders,
When all that is really needed is the removal of the key targets!

And you Soldier Allgingham should have been a poet soldier
For your inauguration into the War
Was a sight of a plane flying over a reservoir!

What irony, that even though two peas of the same pod,
You have contrasting views of the aftermath;
While you promoted remembrance of the `Died'
Mr Patch believed in moving ahead of the times**.

The war is truly over for you now,
Now at last you have been released of this horrible chapter of man's:
I hope it does the same to us too!


Holocaust: Lessons Learnt

If they do not listen to reason,
Then they will have to listen to action:
It's as simple as this, I'm afraid,
Or the rest will have to live the slaves of Satan!

The Soften Dead of Poor Countries

Why is it, I ask, that in wars
We commemorate and over-commemorate
The deaths of our harden dead,
And sweep the chars
Of the many innocent souls
Under the carpet of Saviours!

Why, I ask, nobody really voices
The grief, the cries and the desolation of the poor,
The one that live for the sake of births,
And are caught into the cross-fire
Of nations with senseless leaders!

When a solider dies on a foreign land
He is plastered on the front pages of newpapers,
And is promptly flown home with all salutations,
And is given a proper and respectful funeral,
And his family is looked after for his miss
While an innocent bystander is killed*,
He is hurled into an open cart to some unknown place
And is given an unceremonial burial,
And those that he leave behind
Are made more poor and disorientated.

I guess when it comes to self-interests,
Nobody really gives a shit about virtues!


Men In Trenches

He's dead now and for him the misery is all over,
He'll not feel the infernal trenches
Agonizing his soul and body any more
Or smell the rotten air of waste and carcasses
Burning the lining of his nostrils.

He's dead now, and for him
The insanity of the War is over,
Where young men in their prime
Are pinned down in wretched gutters
To resolve conflicts of insanious leaders!

He's dead now, this youth
Well versed in the art
Of science and lit:
A pen should have been in his hand
When he died not a bayonet.

He’s dead now, and for him
The Heaven’s gates have open wide;
He’ll not feel the sadness on deaths of his friends
Clawing at the cockles of his heavy-laden heart!

O, he’ll not see the sad faces
Of wretched comrades lined
Against the walls with their handy-packs
Ready as can be for the captain’s word.

He’s beyond the hands of his foes now,
This young exuberant soldier,
Too young to be in this hell’s furrow
Of mankind’s making.

He lived an inspirable man,
Who never ever whinged
At his goes on No Man's Land:
But said 'Death cometh to those that waith
Not to those that heartily faceit'.

“Why him god, why him! O god why him!
Why not Charlie, Billy or Bhim
Who have all lost the will of livin’.”


Human Being

I am no soldier,
Nor a war have I fought;
I have not smell
The odour of rotting flesh,
Or seen courageous men wither
In a bloody mess,
Or for that matter I have not heard
The piercing cries of the wounded.

And so I suppose they will laugh,
“How can he know the horrors of wars
If he had not partake in its atrocities
But had read and seen pictures
From the comfort of his house!”

O, but they are all wrong,
I do not have to be on the battlefield
To taste the realities of wars,
Or to feel the sadness and the pains
Of men fighting for their land;
I am, after all, one of them – A Human Being.

I guess they will say
When my back is turned,
The old men and old women of yesterday
Who had fought for their land:
“See the coward that walks the streets;
While our brave youth is dying
He is just gibbering
About the insanity of wars.”

O yes they will curse my guts
And give me all sorts of ill-names;
And they will spit out all their venoms,
And even distant themselves from my sight;

But I’m not really the coward
They think I am;
I am quite brave to be a rebel
And face the distastement of my shame!

I chose not to fight
‘Cause I believed not in the cause;
Wars are destructive for the innocent,
And I’m doing something constructive!