To the Children of Quail, Partridges and Sacrificed Oxen

Whether it was in a German Assault,

Or in the seige of Burma,

Whether it was amid Malay rubber trees

Or in a strangers' wars in NEFA, Ladakh

Selflessly they died,

Deaths without meaning or aim

Partridges, quail, oxen to slaughter

Adding their "yes" to strangers' agreements,

Awakening to strangers' handclaps and slogans,

Drunk on the dregs of other mens' beer,

Crying "ayo Gorkhali", but merely oxen,

Tumbling headfirst into war.

Unfortunate women, weaning your sons

On pensions from husbands who are no more!

Old ones who worship the eighty four sages,

With income from the fall of your sons!

Young men who woo in the gathering-house,

Donning the jerseys of friends passed away!

Young brides in your palanquins,

Wearing bangles given by lovers now dead!

Beautifully it adorns your breast,

This medal of honour, Victoria Cross

But does it not give off sometimes

A rising stench from the corpse of your kind?