The midnight scars tell tales of all: 

Of courageous, brave hearted, and polished mighty heroes they call.

Stalwarts marched forward pounding boots on the ground 

More tanks, more gunners, more men, all are down. 

Whistling bullets sink in the torso of noble-spirited, 

Marrow freezes, tank sneezes; festering with hatred, we drifted.

Invincible fires, fired the soldier whose friend was burnt alive

The battlefield now baptized in ichor, the grisly perfume of corpses arises.

Berry-red blood from the mouthless wounds dripping by, 

“We don’t turn away” a soldier's shout, breathed under a pagan black sky.

With survivor’s guilt, faith in-built; the men with moral injuries cross-by,

Behind the enemy’s line, upholding wisdom and divine; their spirit never dies. Outnumbered target-hits and explosives mark the victory at last!

But the battle never ends for those post-traumatic men. 

A warfare between remembering and forgetting, 

They are trying to cope with grief and supportive smoldering.

Feeling horror beneath their skin, out-stress all-bound, 

Mistress’s hand from behind, mother’s fine-dine, 

Made their almighty strength sound and profound. 

On December's solstice night, whilst joy reaches its height,

I pulled the trigger with my emotions intact, 

That’s how a warrior survives, by murder-suicide.