To those men who are always behind us, though sometimes we may not see them.
To those men who are too busy flying fighter jets to teach their daughters to make paper planes.
To those sons who will point at every aeroplane that skims the horizon to proudly claim, “that’s my father!”.
To those women whose hearts will return wrapped in the tricolour and chipped aluminium; Who will place dented helmets beside faded polaroids of days gone by.
To those youth who will break solemn promises- “I’ll come back soon.”
To those families that will stare out of windows, refusing to draw down curtains as they hope against hope.
To those men who can truly say the sky is the limit.
To those men who fly above us yet are so rooted to the cause of their motherland.
Those brave hearts whose faces are lined with sweat and determination as they kiss the ground beneath their feet before they embrace the heavens for the last time.
To the men who take every sortie with a last salute.
To the white saris and navy-blue shirts stashed away and medals hung on rusted nails. To survival and martyrdom and the presence of absences. To commodores and flight lieutenants and wingmen. To parades and memoirs and sacrifices and soldiers in the sky.
The Eighth of October is for them.
To those men who are always behind us, though sometimes we may not see them.
To those men who are too busy flying fighter jets to teach their daughters to make paper planes.
To those sons who will point at every aeroplane that skims the horizon to proudly claim, “that’s my father!”.
To those women whose hearts will return wrapped in the tricolour and chipped aluminium; Who will place dented helmets beside faded polaroids of days gone by.
To those youth who will break solemn promises- “I’ll come back soon.”
To those families that will stare out of windows, refusing to draw down curtains as they hope against hope.
To those men who can truly say the sky is the limit.
To those men who fly above us yet are so rooted to the cause of their motherland.
Those brave hearts whose faces are lined with sweat and determination as they kiss the ground beneath their feet before they embrace the heavens for the last time.
To the men who take every sortie with a last salute.
To the white saris and navy-blue shirts stashed away and medals hung on rusted nails. To survival and martyrdom and the presence of absences. To commodores and flight lieutenants and wingmen. To parades and memoirs and sacrifices and soldiers in the sky.
The Eighth of October is for them.

she waits at the door
for him to come home.
it has been so long.
and yet
she keeps her post.

if she leaves for a second she might miss the flash of a uniform, a crooked grin, a letter home.
baby teeth knocked out like gravestones after a storm.

like the gravestone the telegram in her hand may imply.
she has not opened it.
she has not-
can not-
will not-
open it.

the telegram sits
and she sits
and the clock sits
(mockingly)

and her son sits.
the closest to his homeland he will ever get is
the flag blanketed over him.

and still

she waits at the door.

Bring me a rocket
Ma,
I'll be an astronaut.

I'll visit Dad's star
And ask him
Why doesn't he ever return.

I'll visit Dad's star
And ask him
Why he never waves back.

I'll visit Dad's star
And ask him
Why they had wrapped him in a flag.

A little girl sang a song on the streets
About men, tired fighting the war
About the ships that left
And all who forgot their joy to the end.

She sang in her clean voice and flew up to highness
And sunbeams shined on her shoulder
Everyone saw and heard from the darkness
The ***** and torn clothes singing in the light.

All of them were sure that joy would come
Because ships arrived at beach
The people in the land of war
Regained their bearings are happy.

Sweet was her voice and the sun’s beam around
And by heaven’s gate
The little girl versed into mysteries and mourned
Because none of them will ever be returned.

To walking out of the house alone
To killing enemies with every dying emotion
To those who stand still in soulfading light
To those who don’t hesitate taking a bullet with pride
We salute you because you're willing to fight!

To face every plight without getting afraid
To bathe sometimes in the rain of grenades
To those with their eternal will
To those with the restless spirit
We salute you because you refuse to quit!

To the sacrifices that seemed very normal
To the courage amidst the literal horror
To those who dare to fight their own fears
To those who die fighting for us at the border
We salute you because YOU all are the real avengers!

And all those mothers who shed tears at night
All the wives keep waiting in the fading sight
All the families who lost their beloved ones
To those all who only lived once but shall stay forever
In our hearts, in our memories
In the history, for their dauntless bravery
To the real superheroes of our nation who don’t fight for any fame
I salute you because it's not a shame!

My life is simple, humble pleasures
The girl I love, summer leisure
‘The Duke is dead’ the prime minister says
‘Your time has come, you must do your best’.

My heart grows large, my eyes turn red
One final kiss, I lose my breath
My mother weeps, my father stares
His parting words ‘you must do your best’.

We train for the task that lies ahead
Our tools of evil, our countries crest
Brothers forever, until the end
The sergeant says sternly ‘you must do your best’.

The foreign soil, our blood it thirsts
We do not falter, we march and curse
We face our destiny, we march abreast
My father’s voice follows me ‘you must do your best’.

The fight is hard, our spirit put to the test
Death follows us, we cannot rest
Our bravery triumphs, ‘oh how our country will be impressed’
We do our duty, we do our best.

But the victory is fleeting, our brothers fall
Staring eyes, cold skin, we loved them all
Our grief immense, we lay them to rest
They were the bravest, they did their best.

The darkness surrounds us, our souls to stone
They want to end us, to send us home
I raise my weapon; one man lay dead
I have taken, life most precious, I have done my best.

The war is over, the Duke avenged
We wander home, those who were left
return to crowds, they stand abreast
They thank us all, ‘You are the best!’

The war is over, still a battle I fight
My hands tremble, sleepless nights
I see his face, where his body rests
My heart is cold, no pride, but guilt instead ‘I did my duty, I did my best’.

My parents proud, my love distressed
My suffering is silent, put to them instead
They grieve for me, the boy that left
The Man, broken, who survived, who tried his best.

A fatherless son, sonless mother
A widowed wife, man’s lost brother
Their pride is poison, a shot to my chest
I confess my sins, they do their best.

My life was simple, now changed beyond measure
The girl my wife, our children treasures
‘The Duke is dead!’ she says to them
‘Your father went, he did his best’.