Till it soothed the soul of the dead,
With flowers the grave was sprinkled,
But with thorns the memory was wrinkled.
The night one thought looked haunted,
For the beauty of nature was looted,
The mournings were done for the warrior,
By the people who seemed kindler.
He who had no narcissism,
Had laid down his life for his nation,
But now there were none to remember his deeds,
Except the ever loving breeze.
For everyone continued to be merry and gay,
They enjoyed his sacrificed fruits that day,
No feelings they had for one so patriotic,
Instead for money they were more frantic.
The homages for the martyr decreased,
People were taken overy by greed,
From this they could not be freed,
For they didn't change their behaviour,
Alas! this turned out to be more deadlier.
