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The Stains of blood

Already was timid, the boy in his teenage,
Than to forsake everything, in fierce rampage.
Held tight a rifle, marched to the outskirts,
Witness his martyrdom, The stains of blood.

His country in war, and so got pulled his town,
To an old tree, he chained his bicycle down.
Abandoned his dreams, “Farewell!”, He said,
Witness his martyrdom, The stains of blood.

Promised his homecoming, in a week or two,
His mother anticipated, else cared who?
Rusty got his bicycle, he never returned,
Witness his martyrdom, The stains of blood.

An year passed, with no intimation of him,
His mother lost her hope, optimism got dim.
Every trooper returned, except the chosen one,
Still mourns his mother, Seeing his stains of blood…

By Tanuj Narain Srivastava

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