by: Guneet Kwatra
|the letter was in his hand,|
|and thoughts were conquering his brain.|
|his nation was calling,|
so he put aside all his pain.
packing up his bags,
he got one note.
he opened it up,
and as his father wrote:
"my dear son,
this country is our land.
you have to protect its greenery,
you have to look after its sand."
his father had died,
fighting for the nation.
showing the love for his country,
as his ultimate relation.
the battle field was not far away,
neither was the battle.
the bombs were about to explode,
aned the guns were soon going to rattle.
the enemy started pushing hard,
and the attack was on.
as he went to protect his motherland,
remembering the oath he had once sworn.
his heart was filled woth anger,
and he wanted to cut that hand,
that tried to shed blood ,
on his dear motherland.
his gun was firing bullets,
and soon some enemies were dead,
the once beautiful land of peace,
was fast turning red.
then came the deadly bullet,
and hit him on his chest.
he fell down on the ground,
and closed his eyes for a long rest.
he said good bye to his nation,
for whom he has given his life.
and departed from this world,
leaving behind a bleeding mother and a crying wife.
he gave his today,
for our tomorrow.
to give hundreds of families joy,
he gave his family sorrow.
oh!my dear indians,
just think the grief his family will bear.
just spare a thought to that brave soldier,
just spare him a tear.