All the hot red glow, <br />The raging booms are gone, <br />But the grief hangs still <br />Like a tattered English flag <br /> <br />Limp in the windless air <br />And the overcoming silence. <br /> <br />The pariah dogs mourn <br />For men who do not <br />Yet know that the <br />Sword is double-edged, <br /> <br />Yelling like banshees <br />That have well and truly come. <br /> <br />A child sits in the immense ruins <br />Of his nursery and his innocence— <br />Slowly pushed out, <br />A gunshot at a time. <br /> <br />His mother lies dead <br />In the bottomless well— <br />That day he turned a thousand <br />Years old, <br />But he’s not too elderly <br />For tears. <br /> <br />The sepoy sits in the hungry ruins <br />Of Freedom and Vengeance’s illusion, <br />Slowly crumbled when <br />The battle yell died. <br /> <br />He flung his soul <br />Down a bottomless well— <br />With a wound mortal and immortal, <br />That cannot be cured with tears.<br /><br />Ashley Akari<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sepoy-the-indian-mutiny/
