How are the sunsets
Of the old mujahid?
Melancholy over
The dormant, rusted bolo
The sole unyoung rifle
Spangled with scars
From trenches forgotten
Gnaws at his bones
The growing dark.
When will the sunset ever
Slip out without notice?
The last rays through curtain
Holes before him
Stays his solitude.
His dead war comrades
March in single file.
He hears bombs
Flight of bullets
Smell of earth
Damp grass again.
But the masjid’s call
Sings him back
To where he slumps
Against the wall.
He prepares to pull his feeble body
Into its divine duty.
Tomorrow, the sun once again
Will shine.
He should stop thinking
Of all the nothing
He will leave behind.
