By Simran Bance.
In a land unknown, unused, unfed,
we stride through the green, the blue and the red,
ambush, close-quarter, covering their tracks,
but now our country calls us back.
Knee-high, gushing, the flood that follow,
brain-washed, rushing, drenched in sorrow,
the slurry itself cannot wash our sins,
hiding in stealth, we wear the wrong skins.
So we are dragged further, sinking lower,
no harness or rope on our backs.
Blinded and lost we are swallowed deep.
Blinded by war, waiting to die.
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