I was in the Indian Air Force & I wrote this in 1971 when we were moving to the border in Rajasansi, Amritsar, (Western Indian Front) just before the war with Pakistan began. It was an ironical thought that made me write this verse.
Maybe, he would have been my closest friend,
But here we meet on the battleground,
Both enemies with daggers drawn.
If I had met him on a Railway station
Maybe, we would have had some pleasant talk
But in the battlefield I swear at him,
And with a gun in hand, he leers at me.
A string around my neck & a number on it
That's all I am of now, a moron sent out to fight
A string around his neck with a number on it
That's all he is now another moron sent to fight.
Who's war are we fighting? What's it for anyway?
No questions are answered, but only got to fight
They say he shall shoot you, so shoot him first
I don't kill him, he kills me, so I got to shoot
Sitting in that stinking trench waiting for my food,
Eyes weary & burning out, yet in search of him
I lower my guard a bit & shall not live to see another day
So here I am hungry & tired, but ready to shoot.
In a pensive mood I think of all those men,
Who tell us, for our nation, we got to fight
He too has been told the same, so who's right?
Allah O Akbar is his war cry, Har Har Mahadeo my retort.
If I had met him on a Railway station,
Maleku Salam would have said he, Jai Ramji Ki my retort,
Fate decides that friends we were not to be,
The war ends, we both survive, & I eagerly wait for him.
Poetry by Raju Swamy
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Written on 2006-09-27 at 15:52
Tags War
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A Disillusioned Soldier.
If I had met him on a Railway stationMaybe, he would have been my closest friend,
But here we meet on the battleground,
Both enemies with daggers drawn.
If I had met him on a Railway station
Maybe, we would have had some pleasant talk
But in the battlefield I swear at him,
And with a gun in hand, he leers at me.
A string around my neck & a number on it
That's all I am of now, a moron sent out to fight
A string around his neck with a number on it
That's all he is now another moron sent to fight.
Who's war are we fighting? What's it for anyway?
No questions are answered, but only got to fight
They say he shall shoot you, so shoot him first
I don't kill him, he kills me, so I got to shoot
Sitting in that stinking trench waiting for my food,
Eyes weary & burning out, yet in search of him
I lower my guard a bit & shall not live to see another day
So here I am hungry & tired, but ready to shoot.
In a pensive mood I think of all those men,
Who tell us, for our nation, we got to fight
He too has been told the same, so who's right?
Allah O Akbar is his war cry, Har Har Mahadeo my retort.
If I had met him on a Railway station,
Maleku Salam would have said he, Jai Ramji Ki my retort,
Fate decides that friends we were not to be,
The war ends, we both survive, & I eagerly wait for him.
Poetry by Raju Swamy
Read 1045 times
Written on 2006-09-27 at 15:52
Tags War
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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