My Medals

I die over my medals, which make my nose run,
For the tears I tried to suppress, but no use,
Both hands can not cope with any old illness,
The way of death, and the ways of heaven.
One dies of combat and the wound is heavy
That tears flow on the colours of the rainbow -
Some tears are red blood, while others transparent like water.
The fragments of the war are like any spoils,
But the best spoils come from the head and heart,
It is death and its accompaniment,
Just how to feed the dead.
I die over my medals, which may produce the tears.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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