An Ultimate Martyr Poem by Paramananda Mahanta

He was the last of my flying squadron,
Who measured the breadth of the horizon.
The most sought after feathered fighter,
Knew to evade all predating hunters.

His striking colour sang my eyes,
The depth of beauty in the sky.
When he pitched from the heaven,
His velvet body made me insane.

He was a genius of all shooting stars,
Headed miles before the stop over.
A wizard of senses of marshalling art,
Didn't understand that deadly dart.

An arrow of cheater struck his chest,
When he let the breeze to kiss its breast.
Now no more hooting near my home,
Put me in the hell all missing seven.

Copyright 2019
Paramananda Mahanta
All rights reserved pp