The Martyr

 

I savoured my evening drink in my room,
as my bright fire shut out the gloomy twilight,
my wife and daughter peacefully slumbered,
and I smiled at the precious sight.

 

I was startled by a knock on the door,
there was someone out in the night,
I crept to the window to see who it was,
a lonesome figure stood, his face weary and tight.

 

“Come in and warm yourself,” I said to him,
“have a drink or two at the very least,”
replied he, “I have no need of your hospitality,
you don’t have to offer me a feast.”

 

He bent and lovingly unwrapped,
a piece of cloth from his tattered bag,
saying, “This shall always keep me warm,
the saffron, white and green of my flag.”

 

“I’ve been part of many a battle,
I’d fight against one and all,
I’d kill a man or more,
to ensure this flag doesn’t fall.”

 

“Tell your mind to be bereft of worry,
have no fear, harbour no fright,
go back to the fire in your hearth,
for you and your loved ones will be all right.”

 

I said, “But is there something I can do,
for you’re wet from the rain and sleet,
come, enter my warm home,
have your fill, and be replete.”

 

His eyes welled up with tears and he said,
“Mortal things are no comfort for the soul of the dead,
value thy freedom, respect my sacrifice, and remember,
you breathe this air because, I fought and I bled.”

 

Note: I wrote this one a couple of years ago, but never posted it to a blog.