A Soldier's Will

• Shyam Bhat, Grade 12
• Poetry
• 2019

His finger twitched like a trigger,
Bullets graze the edge of his skin,
Leaving layers thin.
Heart beats in his throat.
Blood stains his fingertips.
But a soldier can not be wary or hesitate;
A soldier must march on.
Match his steps to the drums of war.
On fields where Death's name is to pursue.

His finger twitches on the trigger.
No gun in hand, but in memory.
Death is a name that is called.
But Death has not come to him on the field.
Death has come to his bedside.
Death did not take him on the field decades ago.
Death would take him now;
No bloodshed to ensue.