There is no disagreement,
no mutiny, no desertion
Only a quiet acknowledgement
as the men get back to work
The signalman returns to his signal,
Throughout the day, he will never stop
relaying the events.
The sound of the oncoming horde grows louder,
Rifles crack, The horde is upon them,
assaulting the outer wall
The disciplined fire of the Sikh troops,
breaks the first wave of the tribesmen.
But they are like the sea, rolling back,
and rushing forward with even greater strength.
Bodies drop all along the killing field.
in front of the signalling post.
The sound of twenty rifles,
roaring against ten thousand.
But this time, it's not enough to break the charge
Shells pepper the rough hune walls
One of the signal company falls dead
Then the enemy is at the wall
Climbing, clambering up, determined.
A brief melee: Knives and swords, bayonets and rifle butts
They break the wave again, But this time,
There's Sikh blood in the dust, under the baking sun
The bodies of the fallen are carried into the inner wall
Each loss is a friend, one of only 21 holding the station.
and that number is dropping
Shouts are heard from outside the wall,
The tribe's leaders are promising the Sikhs
wealth, safety and positions of importance
All they had to do was abandon their post.
No man budges.
This is the first part of the poem 'Saragarhi' and it is based on the events of September 12th, 1897. This poem is about 21 Sikhs sacrificing their lives to help their brothers.
