I raised the gun
And aimed at his throat.
He was cornered,
Not a knife in his coat.
I had killed many like him before.
He did not plead to keep alive,
Not an act of cowardice he bore.
With not a defence of betrayal,
He stepped forward,
Ready for the fall.
I looked at his eyes,
He looked back like a hawk.
I could only see a hero in the black beads,
A hint of a cold and silent mock.
I stood there for a moment,
My hand trembled for a sec.
Was it for the cold?
Or was it for the sweat dripping down my neck?
Hero he was, to his cause.
Hero was I, to mine.
He had killed my brethren-in-war,
He was my foe.
I would never let him go.
A boy crying in his father’s arms,
It was a scene of my youth.
A voice was shouting in my ears,
Reminding Colonel’s order to shoot.
The gun blazed once,
The bullet tore through his heart.
My hero fell strong.
Son, in Dad’s heart,
Your spirit will live long.