Beneath his feet lies a rose,
Crushing it under;
He had his alter egos inside,
Encephalon (Brain) kept sending the deserving ones to fight for him.
But now it's Quiver is Emptied.
Wars took all the soldiers away;
His legs quiver and hands are numb,
With Black Rose in his hand he Crawls.
The Storm brings few droplets of water on the Cactus behind him,
Clouds aren't raining,
In his torn leather shoes & cuts on his knuckles,
He Crawls into a Shroudless Grave,
Woodless Pyre or,
Has he Invited Eagles for Dinner?
He himself doesn't.
He won't join 27 Club,
He's has outlived suffering of hundred lives.
He chooses to:
Rest his Sword
Unkiss his Bow
Reject his Spear
Give away wood from his Axe.
He Fought his Last War now this Soldier Deserves rest;
Unceasing & Eternal.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem