The Warrior Poem by Rubin Nanda

I have bought the blade
forged with my name
Having marked my ground
I wait for the word to spread

A war dawns upon me,
Scabbard is empty
The sun I see reflect upon the edge,
whilst my sword is raised.
My armor is heavy
all the way down to the feet
the stars chime in jest
and greet every step I take

The boughs are scarred
a dent on the steel plate
or a demented raconteur
of my spiraled fate

Enemy has blown the conch
The general has summoned the best
Weary on the last row I stand
I stand nevertheless
He speaks of rational men
with precision who strike
His words of sensible advice
or hallucination of an opiated army
But then when has any battle
ever made any sense to me.

I fight to perish
On the battlefield of my experience
So that the one to take my place
shall resurrect the one who forged the blade.