When time miraculously vanished from the skies, I limped with a gunshot wound 

that took me out of the war. I survived – doing odd jobs, begging too if 

nothing worked. The scars on my face gradually gained in their hideous 

themes, and the lovers I had once strayed and stayed away…

The war continued, and the bombs fell, the bullets strayed and a few, just a 

few of those found their mark, leaving behind the dead and those who wanted 

to be dead alone, in that deeply tumultuous sulphurous heaven soaked with 

napalm fumes.

My home was a cardboard box, my beard masked my scars, and the red eyes 

compelled people to walk away.

I held on to a photograph of a young boy of twenty two, and clasped a few 

fading letters from a girl of nineteen, and fantasized about the garden where 

there was nothing called push and shove, no humanity entrapped in saline 

tears or asthma laden hoarse thoughts walking the murky lanes of existence…

I always thought of a homecoming to that age, when … well I found my 

wings. People like me find it sooner than later.

When I reached here finally, rising through the white mist, I found the dusty 

lanes of the past gone and changed to a miraculously green ambience, and I 

recognized the home I always sought.

She asked, “Where have you been, love?”

As she caressed my face, I knew there were no scars!

I walked, there was no limp.

And there was no napalm…


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