Che

wild man in a beret,let your spirit breathe now; upon this time and red soil. there are stains of rebellion still hanging from your beard. jungle scent on your fatigue. liquid history in your eyes. there was a time, when you could paralyse mysteries with your words. there was still a time, when you could speak to wolves and stranger lakes.

your hands, betrayed by the seasons of defeat...they were crafted for blood, which could morph into blades, and hunt for dictators//

language of questions and calculus, you were a gambler from a different age, who chose every war to smoke his cigar.

miracles and violence. sound and silence.

vengeance and freedom. murder and peace.

beneath the burden of music and memories,

I do remember you

as a rebel,

as a hero in another monsoon epic

and maybe, bullets were your only reward...

and death, your only refuge.