This soldier
Died with tears frothing in his throat
And I figured out
Those tears were not triggered by the pain
From his galore-bleeding wound
No! He was weeping form unshakeable bravery
That those tears could have been harbingers
Of a grin
And through the snug warmth of his incredible valour
Did germinate a dim jaded on his cheek
The cumulonimbus clouds in his eyes
Refused to shed no teardrops
The silhouette of agony loomed within the mist of his courage
But so faint and from so faraway
That most was is not beheld at all
In a raucous exhausted lachrymose voice
To me he muttered
“Carry on with the struggle, Comrade, till we harvest our Zimbabwe
Those words, I heard above the hammering of blood in the ear
Soon in the porridge of his own gore, he was lolling inertly
Lifeless, flat, numb and cold like a rock
With all the teeth exposed
I could merely let gutter down my face, rivulets of sweat
Just like molten wax running down the sides of a burning candle
My eyes, barren of tears
And the cruel sun of November
Shed tears of grief to mourn him