The night was nigh,
Dark and silent,
I watched my son closely,
He slept in peace.
I held him in my arms,
And put him gently down,
On his tender bed.
Suddenly, the sounds of gunfire
Struck our ears like a thunderstorm.
My son awoke and cried in fear.
Enemies advanced nearer,
Screams and cries echoed everywhere.
I stepped out of my house
And found the lifeless body
Of my father, hit by a bullet.
I talked to myself - 'No time for mourning,
No time for death.'
I searched for a safe passage,
Saved many lives that night.
But still, a few fell to the ground,
Not to wake up again.
And all houses were gone,
In ashes blown by the winds.
The next morning,
I wiped off the dust all over me,
Held my tears,
And held my head high -
And waved goodbye to my family,
And having left behind all I loved,
I took the first step,
Towards the journey of a warrior.
Call me by any names you like -
Be it Narco-Terrorist,
Refugee, or Miscreant.
But, I am just a simple farmer
Who holds a gun -
To fight for his land and his people.
For the enemies took away all I had,
Which left me with nothing more to offer!
Only blood and sweat, I have.
I will not rest,
Until freedom embraces us!
Let's all remind ourselves:
'When a nation falls, heroes must arise.'
Thingkho Le Malcha (TLM) is a traditional method of communication used to send out messages across the Kuki hills during the Anglo-Kuki War,1917-1919... more
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