To fight a losing battle
With men, being slaughtered beside like cattle,
Yet, facing your foe, unyielding in death,
So that your countrymen can enjoy a free breath.
In spite of odds, so bleak,
Fights a soldier for your right to speak,
To be heard, even among those howls of pain,
Grinning, as his enemies charge again, in vain.
His cuts dripping red on the white snow,
Forming blotches, in the dark that seem to glow,
Remembering, that the first cut was the deepest,
Just like your first love is the sweetest.
Felling his heart working vigilantly against,
Pumping his blood, its frantic effort he sensed,
To keep his sinews fighting fit with blood,
But only to find, his cuts helping it into the mud.
The pain of a thousand cuts,
That with every passing moment was becoming haute,
But the sight of his enemies’ kept the pain at bay,
His only thoughts, to fight till the end of his way.
Fighting with both his mind and body,
All that his country stood for, he sought to embody,
Till life dripped out of him, he would continue the endeavour,
Remembering, Pain is temporary, Pride is forever
Note to readers
haute literally means high
it was used here to maintain the iambic parameter