The scar on his face
The steadiness of his pace
He didn’t have to hide it
Rather beam it with pride
A scar which was born
Born while leashing probably
A hundred more scars
Not on body of his own
Instead upon her
Whom he hadn’t even known
The world is indeed a subtle place
Just like that vase
Which carries flowers with thorns
Beautiful and remarkable at a glance
But a closer look reveals
The dense and crafty things
Hitherto he was unaware
And it finally dawned upon him
He fought for no one person that day
But for humanitarian at large
It was a battle
Selfless and conclusive


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