A glacier gobbles Sonam,
the highest military post,
with its nine soldiers in
Arctic sleeping bags.
Lance Naik Thappa lies
in an air bubble as a fetus.
Sense becomes a wretched
thing. Bravery freezes.
After the sunrise, a radio
set at another post cracks
to life with his voice,
awakening the recovery
team. He resists the chill
with his will. Image of a
forlorn family frightens him.
Corpses are dug out
of blue ice boulders.
Thappa's body is recovered
on the fifth day, with clutches
of death and a rare spark in his
eyes. Press corps move their
cameras, musing how to make
it more sensitive. A pair of
dry lips whispers holy words
before the door of ICU, while
death packs her soldier's soul.
Pyre burns with flames of
pain. Ash of pride remains.
First published in The Literary Hatchet
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem