The bullets scream with the demonic sounds
and loud gunshots tremble the mountains.
The death Surrounds the green valley and
Blood pours out from the bodies that died.
The fighters are the lions, the deads are Devine,
The cowards have no place —to hide and to die.
A son left his home to serve his mom
—his mother believes he will come home
That too in his boots, standing on his foot.
She taught him to rise, to fight for his right,
“Never let fear near you, fight for your pride.”
When the bravest of all braves fell,
He stands with the gun he holds.
Whooshing bullets sing the song
He holds the trigger and breathes
—the dance of his valor begins.
He shoots to kill the wolves
who eyed his mother country
he spares not one.
The blood is left and the bodies in blood.
He laughs as he runs to hoist the flag
And he dies…
He sleeps on his mother’s soil
Covered in blood and holes.
A son who will never go his home
To meet his mother but the mother of all,
The Indian motherland will hold him to the heart.
The crowd will gather and the flowers will rain.