The wind stops, the song dies,
In the distance, an infant cries
The rusted windmill, creaks and turns,
While civilization, in my hand, burns
Look yonder, o’er the hills you’ll see,
My gun, my sword, my steed and me,
The barrel smokes; blood drips down the blade,
The steed foams and struts in the banyan shade.
I am the messenger of death, beware
The good, the bad, none do I spare
I’ve left people with bodies braised
In seconds, entire cities I have razed
I’ve made them cry, I’ve made them weep,
I’ve deprived their nights, of peace and sleep
Countless heartbeats I have stopped,
Countless aspirations I have robbed
Annihilation is my solitary goal,
I am bereft of heart and soul,
Besides me, a deathly silence travels,
As my existence this verse unravels
Where I set foot, happiness does not,
Yet I can’t be burnt or hung or shot
As I have no soul to call my own,
As never-ending hate, this world has shown
They make me unleash, my sword from its sheath
But they are scared of what lies underneath
Little do they know, if some courage do they show?
They won’t be sentenced to pain, down below
No, they’ll be handpicked, to go to Valhalla
From the battlefield and given a reception gala,
With endless treasures they’ll be bestowed,
Into god’s own presence, they’ll be shown
Not wise to this knowledge, they riot and fight,
On the stupid principle of “might is right”
So for eternity, souls I’ll plunder it seems,
With an untold story of a warrior’s dreams.
Arnab Mukherjee 