The Wounded Mercenary

Dr Ranbir Laishram
He crossed the porous border,
Hired and paid, with a gun in hand.
Trained to kill, with a singular goal,
To fire his lethal gun, and kill, without control.

In traditional attire, not combat gear,
He marched to fulfill his deadly peer.
His mission clear, to kill and kill alone,
People unknown, hated by his boss, his heart a stone.

But fate intervened, in the crossfire's sway,
He fell, bleeding profusely, at the hilltop bunker's gray.
Breathing heavily, he begged for water's aid,
His friends abandoned him, fleeing for life, terrified.

The wounded mercenary mourned his fate,
His yells echoed through the hillslope's desolate state.
The battlefield extols only valour, ignoring defeat's stain,
The mercenary's struggle ended, a life that could have been.

His lifeless body left behind, alone and cold,
A gust of wind whispered by, leaves covering his soul.
His authority, his downfall, his life laid down for his king,
In an opulent estate, safeguarded, his monarch's heart kept singing.

A vision conceived, a homeland within his own,
Will the monarch's dream materialize, or forever be overthrown?