My Brother
As I walk this grey, cobble stoned path,
I can hear the crumbling of bones and the splashing of blood beneath my feet.
Years ago, the mangled bodies of my brothers lay in this very spot.
My brothers who sacrificed every drop of their blood for this place they call home.
They lay in this spot where their last thought was of the woman.
The woman who stood in her balcony with a cup of tea.
The woman who compared the feisty breeze brushing against her face to the gentle touch of her lover on her rosy cheeks.
The woman whose eyes widened and smile brightened at every doorbell.
Little did the woman know that her beloved man was in the middle of an unending ocean of lost souls and misery,
with beads of blood standing of his forehead,
and his final breaths turning the air into ice.
Little did she know that the last word uttered by his bloody lip,
was her name which froze into ice
and hung above his lips,
just like the way her black, silky hair hung above his face.
The black, silky hair which gently brushed his lips which waited to be kissed.
Little did she know that the last song he sung were prayers which escaped his lips and rose high into sky,
just like the way birds urgently escape when their cage is wide open.
Little did she know that he won’t be coming home for Diwali.
Little did she know that she would receive a letter instead of his smile which lit up the nation.
.
.
.
As I walk this grey, cobble stoned path,
I look up into the sky and feel a heavy rain drop fall onto my cheek.
And I cannot help but smile and salute my brother,
who gave up his entire life, his family, his freedom for this piece of land.
This piece of land on which we are standing.
This piece of land which is standing because of him.
Copyright © Mirika Rayaprolu | Year Posted 2016
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