A dead soldier

I was watching a tree, having garlands of green revolution 
around his thick shoulder, a few moving white flowers 

“Look at his brawny arms!” – I heard a few oral cavities 
gush out comments... I passed them by
Crocodiles, galore, were there to drop tears of cruel triumph, 
only I was watching the tree, through the crowd of weeds,
cut-off, branched off, hewed down and hauled

I was trying to make a portrait of it on my canvas,
No sooner had I had a final brushstroke, the tree stood 
to sit on the burial ground

and asked me, “Where is my Paramvir Chakra?”

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