The Last March of the Lion

Head held high, eyes narrowed in concentration,

Not a hint of fear- it’s been already conquered,

He looks up from his diary, the tiny hint of a mocking grimace playing on his lips,

With a gaze so stern it smolders the victorious look from his jailor’s face,

He arises proudly from his narrow cell, ready for his one last rendezvous.

The name of the Motherland on his lips,

With a grim satisfaction that his purpose had been achieved,

He marches on with long strides, echoing in those corridors which reek of death.

With pride and sorrow in their eyes, his fellow comrades watches him stride forth,

One last time, they egged themselves on to watch their hero,

One last time, they egged themselves on through their tears,

Never had anyone walked so purposefully towards the gallows,

A silent, poignant look he gave them; of reassurance, hope and purpose;

Reminding them of honour and duty and everything worth living for,

He marches on with long strides, echoing in those corridors which reek of death.

The air was deathly still; his captors flinched at the sight of his proud,unassuming bearing,

They tried to comprehend his demeanor; was it pride or suppressed anger?

They found no fear, not even a hint of dread on the face of their nemesis,

Shackled, though he might be; none could even hope to chain his spirit,

An all-conquering love for ‘Azadi’; a love for his beloved Motherland,

Led him forth through thick and thin, through paths unimaginable for lesser men;

Infusing hope and patriotism in his comrades, instilling belief and give them direction,

He walked through those doors of death, climbed those wooden steps, to the gallows,

            He stood proudly on the creaky platform and stared at his captors,

            Stubborn was he to the last moment, breaking their advances to get him to speak,

            The wind caressed his handsome, gaunt face one last time as the noose was placed,

            He felt the tension in the unsteady hands of the executioner as it was tightened,

            Silently, he thanked the Almighty for giving him the chance to serve his motherland,

            For one last time he looked up to the skies and shouted ‘Inquilab Zindabad’

            As the cruel order was passed, his captors cringed in awe of his glory,

            Nature, bereft of her true son shed tears of raindrops on them all,

            As the world echoed in the mournful thunderclaps, which rang as a death knell,

In solemn remembrance of his supreme sacrifice.

(Dedicated in loving memory of Shaheed Bhagat Singh, who inspired    millions to fight   against all odds.)