The Herald
A moving poem of how a herald of war deaths goes about his tasks, doing his duty well, and forever in a race from misery, though he carries it with him.
He rode across streams, rivers and brooks;
Past eagles' nests, crows and rooks.
His job was grim; straight through the hearts
Of people; past wagons and carts
Piled high with bodies.
Neither storms, rain, hail nor snow
Shall stop the herald now.
He stares with red eyes at houses rough and crude,
He rides fast, but sees not where he goes, but broods
Over the futility of distant wars, yet close to the land.
He rides down valleys, across barren fields
Destroyed, ravaged and unable to yield
The King's food. He sights a house:
Then swoops down to it to rouse
The kith and kin of the King's army.
He knocks on the door with his hand
And tells them tales of distant lands:
Of bravery, flesh and bone
But yet ending with that mourning tone
The sad story of a man who died.
He quickly departs, leaving behind misery
Despair and sorrow. He rides on, in his
Ghastly mission; to wipe away joy,
To leave behind sorrow. But his red eyes
Shall never betray their secret.
G.S.Srinivas
14, Arjun Marg,
I.I.Sc.
Bangalore
India
gssrini@rediffmail.com
What stayed with you?
A line that lingered, a feeling, a disagreement. Great comments are as valuable as the original piece.