He who loves his land,
The dirt, trees and greenery.
The hills that helped in his play
Of hide and seek with the enemy.
He wrote poems of her beauty,
He built dreams of her freedom.
He counted days of gratefulness
Towards the land and its wisdom.
People called him their father,
He called her his mother,
The one he fought for,
Days, months and years.
Tired and bruised, he would come home
Victorious in his agenda.
Freedom always came with a price.
He was willing to pay with his blood.
The romantic warrior that he was,
His stories appear in songs and tales,
His bravery and morals are an inspiration
His journey and struggles are full of pride.
And his name is immortal.
~ Suranya