COLOURS

                Colours,all the same;
And yet,so very different.
                Red for me is the ketchup
that I pour,in between two slices of bread everyday,
Munching them before I get to work.
                  Red for him, is the blood,
That pours out from slices,
Of  enemy  flesh;
And sometimes,
from his own.
                  Red for him are the rivers that flow in war;
Of blood and of life,ebbing away.
No draught comes of them and,like of water;
Unless men should will.
                    Red are his tears when he cries,
And that is not often.
For the wells in his eyes hold no water,colourless;
The scorching heat has claimed it.
                    Blue for me is the morning sky,
Unending and immortal;
But for him,he must see it not,
For his sky,it is filled with fumes ,
Of burning homes,
And hearts.
                      Black for me is the darkness,
That follows when lights go out
And I miss out on my favourite t.v. programme.
                      Black,for him,is the darkness ,
That follows when the lights go out,
But from his eyes;
And he misses out,
On all programmes that would follow.
                        Colours,so much the same;
For a man,common like me.
Different though for him;
The Valiant Soldier.