THE YOUNG WARRIOR stood motionless On the bloodied ground where battle Had raged yesterday with vehemence Of heat and sound; of flashing metal Clashing, slicing, piercing, battering, Flying, falling, striking, slaughtering Men and women in the battle of pride, Filling the air with blood curdling cries As bodies fell one after the other with sighs – All now calmed; the violence, stilled; the battle, won. “But, what did I win here?” the Prince thought, As his eyes gazed around the tormenting scene Of strewn bodies that had once valiantly fought A battle of dignity and the right to be rightly free; “What have I gained now?” the Prince sighed, “An open grave, a banquet to worms and vultures, A treat to hyenas.” “It’s not so,” the devil lied “They deserved this for being against your culture!” A little child came walking with tears in his eyes; “My remorse shall equal all my sin,” the Prince began… “For every act of violence that I have done, Ten thousand acts of non-violence shall I return...
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