A Son Of The Nation Poem by Sammy Aswani Luyove

His hands were stiffly stretched
And had not been long cold
The dying warmth could still be felt
But the man smelt.
Dark and hard patches of weary hands' skin
Firmly spread open and thin,
Darkened knuckles and whitened palms
Evidence that he had served under terms;
Dry healing scars with bladed clots that tears
Whose smack must've torn many in jungle affairs,
Blood oozed from the bullet sprayed head
Yet at home his youthful wife waited, waited…
But the man was lying here busy;
Dead in line of duty, finding bread!

Dead in line of duty, bravely saving the nation!
In twenty one gun salute and standing ovation
The nation will mourn for three days
For the fallen hero and we shall part ways.
The pregnant widow and child shall mourn the rest
For knowing him the best,
Promises from the bare burial speeches
She'll have to follow; yet the man died in line of duty
When his hands couldn't pull the trigger.