The Enemy

Slain,
His voice was a whisper,
Every word a struggle,
Against the engulfing silence
Of Death.
He spoke my language,
His face, though bloody,
Resembled my fellows,
But standing
On the other side of the line,
He was my enemy.

His words were a shattered necklace,
Disjoint beads drifting into incoherence,
As he lay at the threshold
Reminiscing —
A village boy, thrashed by fate,
A mere pawn in its game.
But he had dreamed
And fought,
Dared to draw his own destiny,
Only to be snatched by corrupt politicians
Who sent him to his Death
For no reason,
For their own ends,
Hiding behind a farce of
Patriotism.

His helpless anger resonated within me,
Arousing guilt,
Revealing the futility,
The waste,
For I found his life resembled mine,
His quest was my own,
Similar ambitions reigned my heart,
His faults had failed me too.
He and I were one,
But for the line between us,
Dividing us,
Not letting us embrace.

Realization set in,
I saw him in a new light,
But before I could take his hand,
Sleep overcame him,
He left this world and its barriers.
And I was left to cry
For the village that waited for him,
The quest he left midway,
And for the bullet I shot
When I knew not
Of the hypocrisy of the line
And my brothers who stood invisible
On the other side.

[Published in The Creative Cafe in April 2017.]

 


 

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