Away from home, fighting in a strange land

where stench of stale blood lingers all day,

camouflaged, with cold-blood and bullets armed,

Marches he, across streets where dead and mutilated lay.

Flesh, blood or brain; it’s only patches of red.

Down the corner, a child cries for water.

Here, there and everywhere, hundreds dead.

Close your eyes, the scene ain’t no better.

Trained to kill, born to win, the big marine marches on.

But alas! A blood thirtsy bullet hits him on the chest.

The feel of ‘pain’ engulfs the pawn.

Flashes of memories, enlightenment and then, eternal rest.