Graves are closed, so art thine eyes,
terror-sticken of the ghastly experience.
His countenance, the ususal brute,alas serene,
Cold under the "carnival of rust" .
"Allah", was his last word, muffled and low,
deaf to His ears, buried under the chores of those thousands,
wailing, summoning justice.
Handcuffed to all the sunshine, the Pakistani stood,
strong and valiant, on the "deadly hallows",
awaiting the call for Eternal Peace, The Last Slumber.

He struggled for a day's bread, the little lad of five,
detatched from love and amour,
unaccepted by his idol, his father.
Hunger-stricken eyes, worn out attire, hopes ensorcelled.
Kasab, the lonely child, awaited Allah's answer,
the last judgement of his cursed life.

"Cursed", indeed, his life, the skeleton of unreciprocated love,
broken dreams, and, the viscious circle of empty pockets,
was sold off to Hades hounds, in Allah's name,
in the promise of a new life,
a better begining, rising from the ashes of phoenix.
The little child, clinging onto the hopes of an evergreen begining,
gripped the thumb of a figure, dark and brutal,
Unknown of the times, yet to come.

Bewildered eyes saw the shady dark scattered tents,
like the mouth of Lucifer, seducing souls to bound in "loyal slavery".
Stacks of rifles, godown of bombs and weapons ,
with names, varied and weird,
encompassed his vision, for twenty long years.
His innocent heart, juvenile and fresh ,
died the death of a jailed victim.
When he rose, he rose from the ashes of his childhood lore,
"innocence", finally "gone with wind".

He rose, a bloody antihero,
satiated from the blood of guilt-free veins.
He killed, but his inner god, died some more.
every single day, in every single breath.
Trained to slaughter, he, abounded by the vows of
brotherhood and "loyal slavery",
chose to paint his sword red.

When he killed, he killed without a tinge of mercy,
his soul stopped him, but he was never taught to listen,
his heart raged agony, the boy of five,
was lost in the mad rush.
'twas a night of despair, a night when Taj was robbed of her jewels,
a night when prayers were questioned.

He was beaten, tortured, ached inhumanly,
but his lips, sealed and locked,
dare not speak a word, for they were his brothers,
his mates and he, the loyal slave, ate the pain,
with a smile, stubborn and victorious.

When he walked up those stairs, leading his way towards his end,
those thousand eyes rejoiced to the core, but his, dropped a tear,
silent and unseen, he looked back at his life,
his Faith laughing at him,
"What a Life?", he thought, remembering his last prayers,
the black cloth covered his face, the chain was pulled,
Kasab, choked his last breath.

He was a puppet, a child tamed to murder,
a good soul sold to Terror's hands.