Soldier Poem by maas weerabangsa

THE LONESOME STAND

Only sixteen yet freely fighting for the PLO, The norm at this time as the world did know; Barely reaching puberty still wet behind the ear, Too young to die a teenager who had no fear.

She had training to kill the invading nation's child, Leaving their family with the loss and her side smiled; She bade goodbye to her family that day, No boyfriend was there and none to stay.

In a guerrilla camp she was briefed and trained, Somewhere in the desert to be mentally stained; Infantry intelligence was her voluntary calling, Not realizing what was to come for her teenage life's stalling.

On a make shift bed listening to freedom songs and waiting, Senior officers screaming at trainees scared, hating; Knowing not what or who, or how she should show, Away from loved ones a matter you ought to know.

Trained herself into a fighting machine without feeling, Her cause forced her to be pitiless in dealing; Voluntary wearing uniforms, carrying death, Her hatred is such she is out of breath.

Now she stands in a mountain crevice fighting boredom, This brave Palestinian lass battling for freedom; No one to help her and no one to care, A scene of this nature to witness is rare.

She is dressed like a Ninja from her head to toe, With rifle and ammunition and grenades to throw; To look at this lass it's pretty awesome, As she carries her hatred in her bosom.

She seeks no love has no need for lovers, This lass cares less for pretty flowers; She loves only her rifle that she always carries, Cares for it well and has no worries.

Every shot she fires carries her name, Puts the enemy soldiers in utter shame; She sights her rifle and so true is her aim, To this pretty lass it's nothing but a game.

A freedom fighter so brave and so bold, She's a gift of God worth her weight in gold; While maidens, the world over are having fun, She watches the enemy in the scorching sun.

Some enemy soldiers wish her to wed, Some even dream of having her in bed; Her invitation to them is in solid lead, Those who received them are now surely dead.

It's just thoughts that sometimes lingers, As she caresses her weapon in her dainty fingers; While other women are busy cooking steak and fillets, What am I doing here with a rifle and bullets.

Cry not dear sister God is with thee, Freedom is at hand you shall soon see; The blood and tears you shed then will be in glee, And your brave image I shall carry for ever with me.