The Guerilla maestro,
Was shot 4 times.
He writhed in pain,
Yet didn’t open his mouth to shout.
He bit down
his wrist, to suppress the pain.
And screamed,
For more to come his way.
They put 5 more bullets
In his shoulder and head.
That made the fighter stop,
A huge mistake it was, they realized.
9 bullets it took,
To put a man to sleep.
Yet they didn’t stop,
They amputated his arm, for investigation.
Candor and parity
He fought for, till the end.
“It is not interpretation of the world we require.
It is transformation,” he said.
They found similarity
Between him and Christ.
The images almost a look alike.
When placed in the laundry house of the Vallegrande hospital.
He too was tricked, cheated and betrayed
The end so similar.
To that of Christ
One was kissed by his partisan and the other by his war ally.
The Son of God
Was rejected by his own.
The guerilla maestro
Was repudiated by the people he fought for.
Death came to both.
Alike and yet.
Death was itself petrified,
Thinking whom he had to ascend on.
No comments:
Post a Comment