A soldier marching to war
never tells his kin
that he may not return again.

Life makes no truce with death,
for death never ceases
to take its own.
And though men keep living,
death keeps killing.

I cannot love two souls
in the same way,
at the same time.
Forgiveness, lend me your ears—
mend the hate I’ve sown,
restore the trust I’ve lost.

I stand before Karma,
awaiting a table
set with holy manna.

Though mama said,
"Your destiny lies in your hands,"
the world sees only the scars on my palms—
or is it the ink etched on my arms?

She said, "All fingers are not equal,"
but does that mean
the short can never grow tall?

Yet she never told me
that I am free, yet bound by limits—
no chains, but caged in addictions,
no enemy but at war with myself.

The bullet I fired
made me the fallen,
though I silenced every foe—
who could have slain my death?

Now that I’m born again,
let not my defense
become my demise.