Dressed in tatters, bleeding heart, to his bosom a flag held perfectly intact in shape.
As St. Peter called out his name to decide his fate,
A multitude of questions writ on the soldier’s face.
St. Peter paused, reassured
Worry not, for the gates of heaven are for you mate.
But the soul that’d weathered some mighty tempests,
Valiantly fought at the crux of vacillating tidal waves,
Meekly stood, rooted, not moving at the gate.
Compelled, St. Peter asked what bothered him that way.
I’ve killed, taken lives, human lives, lives of my brothers from other mothers,
Yet, St. Peter you’d for me open heaven’s sacred gates?
Heaven smeared with the blood of my brethren would soon paint red like hell my Lord!
St. Peter wiped away a tear that silently fell,
My Braveheart, my Soldier, a man so selfless, oh so brave!
Heaven would be blessed with a soul as pure as yours,
For the men who make you a tool to wage insensible, destructive wars,
Don’t feel as you do for those that fell yonder, across the border.
Heaven, you deserve O noble soul, like a trumpet, they heard from some earthly place,
And a motherland saluted the brave heart, a torch-lit, body sepulchered in tribute.