He was three and a half feet in height
His stature was twice that and then some
He ran like the wind, swift and sure-footed
His ill fitted robe swaying rhythmically
His feet raw n bloody poking out of shoes
That were well worn but all in tatters.

His slender shoulders bore a heavy shotgun
His waist sported a dagger and a few grenades
His fists were rolled into tight balls, swinging
Pendulum-like keeping pace with his fast pace
As he periodically shifted the weight around
A multi-colored turban bobbing on his head

Suddenly there was a skirmish with an attack
From ground and air, staccato gunfire, blasts
Resound as smoke plumes in various places
He too lets loose a hand grenade and fires a
Few shots in rapid succession as though trying
To reassure himself and those around him

His movements were swift and flawless sans
Hesitation as the times had bred a good soldier
Old before his time, his childhood a thing of
The past even though he was twelve years in age
His bright blue eyes captivated while their sheer
Stony look was daunting and bone chilling

Life full of bloodshed and grief had aged him
Before his time and he relentlessly carried on
Fighting for his homeland among the ruins of
His heath and hearth, gathering together
The remnants of his shaky dignity, trying
To make sense out of this senselessness!
“How a person masters his fate is more important than what his fate is.”
-Wilhelm Von Humboldt


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