On a cold winter morning,
It was the month of January.
I peeped out of my window; everything was blurry,
so blurry as if someone had painted it white.
This cold sent a chill down my spine.
Sipping onto the coffee cup in my blanket,
I wondered what if he was here,
I would have been fine.
I got up, plugged in my earplugs, lifted the weights,
my picture in the mirror depicted someone who had been thuged.
Tears were rolling down my chin; I might never grin.
His picture hung on the wall,
his courage and valour stood tall.
The dimple on his cheek, in his eyes, a tweak.
they say he is away, very far away.
Seeing that I even blushed today,
His uniform in the cupboard smelled of him as I held.
I could feel him beside me, like a strong tree.
My duty for the nation then came to my mind,
I wore my uniform that lined.
He was brave for the nation; it was his life that he gave.
Photo by Alvin Mahmudov on Unsplash
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