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.