Monday, July 03, 2017

Poetry: The Rout

Before the Rout,

He was the son of a man
Of considerable wealth and connections;
A child of good blood and ancestry;
He attended some the best schools around;
And capped it all with a university-finish in Europe;
He was brimming with confidence, resources, and prospects;
In a shock move to family and friends,
Upon returning,
He enlisted in the great army of fatherland,
And rose through the ranks,
And was a reference point for intelligence and professionalism;
Before that fateful morning,
When he took upon his young shoulders
The onerous burden of his so called marginalized nomadic race:
"The realm was sick with migraine
And as antidote, he insisted, the head must be severed."

Now drunk on exceeding-ambition,
And staggering through wafting voices of reason
Others and the Sage lend him to forestall a fatal crash;
Instead, he toned up his war rhetoric
To the hard-beating drums
Of his war-mongering accomplices;
Forgetting that only the beginning of war
Is what's in the know;
How it pans out exists but in the region of speculations;
Forgetting too, it's the bones of youths
That are used to stoke the fire of war;
Still, he ran off at dawn in a defiant huff;
And the door of repentance subsequently slammed against him...
The die is cast!


After the Rout,

Badly pumelled, his ill-equipped armies now in tatters
And hungry and demoralized,
He hurriedly alights from his fallen house of illusion
Swimming in a sea of blood
Of his kinsmen and women
Tricked into staking their lives on a gratuitous war;
Ashamed to be the hand
That will thrust in the air the olive branch;
Afraid to face prosecution
For callously murdering his own people
At the Altar of his inordinate selfish ambition;
He filled his humbled heart with escape options,
But took the exile route at last.

Far away in safety and comfort from the scene
Of ruins, anguish, deaths and diseases,
I saw him pacing up and down the rugged spaces
Of his lush cosy apartment;
Regretful he had overrated the force of his genius;
And grossly underrated the might of his adversary;
Wishing he had not ignited the fire
That had now consumed his ancestral home;
I saw him on a small queue, bowl in hand,
Where surviving on doles is a way of life;

Broke, lonely and homesick;
His inheritance forfeited;
He was ready to let go more including
Some of his personal rights for a return to fatherland;
Where throngs, still living in fool's paradise
Continue to idolized him with titles and heroic sing-songs
He's God's sent for their long prophesied emancipation.
After paying with their limbs and legs and eyes and blood
For his foolishness;

And the sunset of defeat pierces them through in the faces.

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