#Title

POETRY

Soldier amidst the blood moon:
AN ELEGY
AREEZ SHARAF
Crimson blood splattered amongst the ravaged lands
The blood moon stands high and mighty
Dripping red onto our lands,
painting its own masterpiece of bloodshed
The long night has come
Like mist it engulfs the nation
The thick ebony liquid of destruction cascades
Down the foreheads of men, women and children
Like matchsticks they stand, starved and emaciated
a single mighty sweep to shatter them apart
To stomp on their brittle legs, slash their thin rags and sever their limbs
Like children tormenting a cockroach do
The politicians torment these poor souls
They have forgotten themselves,
Names are of no significance to them
Instead, they are numbers and tags
Herded by the soldier amidst the blood moon,
Their sole guide leading them to inevitable slaughter
He, the soldier, pawn of the monarch
that works under the guises of democracy
He, the soldier, nameless, eternally forgotten
Only an expendable piece in a chessboard
He, the soldier, breadwinner of the matchstick family
He, the soldier, an unmarked grave shall he be paid with
He, the soldier, not human, not beast, only a gun to shoot
He is the defender of his homeland made by the former colonisers
He is the oppressor, it matters not who wins, who shall oppress?
The foreigners or the colonisers?
The desert lands have endured enough violence
Yet the colour red is still demanded and coveted by the blood moon
The ghouls and mindless zombies of the
Warring aristocrats are set loose upon a
field of peace and fertility
Now dry and barren lands for the crows and vultures
They walk along a line, straight and narrow, on a razor’s edge
The soldier amidst the blood moon observes the woeful snails
Walk along the edge of a straight razor
Blood!! War!! Intestines and innards!! Arms and legs!! Heads and torsos!!
Twisted, deformed and lying exposed along an urban road
Among the kingdom of trash and garbage
Anarchy reigns for the time-being
The Gods of war manifest themselves
In the souls of the soldiers amidst the blood moon
And the vampires await their tribute of blood to suck on
What to buy? What to eat for the pitiful scholar and the woeful worker?
Is there food for thought, a penny for labour?
No human wins this war, only the blood moon rejoices
Even the soldiers who serve the blood moon dutifully die a lonely death
The matchsticks lie quietly on the fields
And roads like loose straw
Strewn upon a floor
None win this war, yet we fight our petty squabbles over abstract thoughts
Remaining woefully ignorant of the long night that has come
And of the matchsticks whose heads burn
From whom shrill screams emanate
Only famine, misery, blood and tragedy
Can build their kingdom in these ruins of the new land
Areez Sharaf studies in class 10 at Scholastica, Uttara.