A Man Dead Inside Me

Into that Battle of Blades, I had rushed without taking heed; 
Behind me few followed, and before me my smiling enemy. 
I will not be the first to depart, I will not be the last to bleed; 
Many shall have to die, before I have a man dead inside me. 

Archers welcome my charge, their strings tight and taut too; 
The arrows shall pierce armours, and we’re lesser suddenly. 
Another volley is prepared, strings pulled and arrows put to; 
But not before I break the ranks, with a man dead inside me. 

They can’t shoot arrows at a man standing amidst them, no; 
Not that they shouldn’t try, but my steed shall never still be. 
My mare run, my sword sweep, my enemy’s blood to flow; 
I would not cease now, and neither the man dead inside me. 

The pike and javelin advances, they seem to cheerfully nod; 
In wild thrusts and stabs, they expected to find their victory. 
A spear looks me in the eye, then throws full might that rod; 
But his is not the claim to make, to that man dead inside me. 

The infantry came out to greet us, we exchange pleasantries; 
Each man would call out to his god, his flag, and his family. 
And then comes the onslaught, the collision of these armies; 
I close my eyes momentarily, to see the man dead inside me. 

There he stands in the distance, his armour shining so bright; 
A blade in the scabbard, with another right through his body. 
I suppose I should know now, that this shall be my last fight; 
And I opened my eyes, but I still see the man dead inside me. 

My army withers away, and my men have breathed their last; 
I stand alone with the enemy, and their swords crying hungry. 
Kill me now, I wish to tell these men, but do not kill me fast; 
And in the slow strokes of steel, I have a man dead inside me. 

By: 
Sarthak Prakash