The Warriors Poem by Lekan Malik

In war,
There is no warrior.
Every man is for himself.
Then you see them,
The tall, the short,
Thin, fat, black or coloured.
The braves with the cowards,
Fighting, on the battlefield.
Shouting, running…
Sweat like rain
Dropping from their unrest body.
The hotness of blood
Becomes hotter,
When one sees
A dear comrade
Falls and dies beside.
Everyone becomes red.
Not red as rose
But red as blood.
Blood of the fighters
Flows left and right.
The battlefield transforms
To pool of blood.
Filled with the blood
Of the nobles, I mean the blood
Of the nonentities.
The nobles are at home,
Not scared of the war
But wise enough…
At the end of war,
The fighters,
Home they come
With the remains
Of their dead comrades.
And in sober,
They say,
“We won the battle.”
And the nobles at home
Join in rejoicing.
Proclaiming, they are the conquerors,
Winners, masters, the warriors.
And we look
From left to right
To determine the real warriors.