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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