Soldiers strengthen the fence of iron wires. Border looks like a fair face, disfigured by smallpox. Virus is still active. Infiltrators crawl through the mist into India’s heart. They are brave, but brainless. A myriad of men waste their sweat in the nearby militant camps, while wheat farms lie locked with weeds. They harvest tears. Machine-guns and mines can never sooth stomachs. Both sides spend millions on missiles, when many starve and struggle. It’s midnight, yet guns roar again, sparks of pain fall down. This side loathes green, and the other side, saffron. These are everybody’s colors. Alas! Soldiers and citizens are conditioned. I say, ‘I’m Indian.’ You say, ‘I’m Pakistani.’ When will we say, ‘We’re men?’ Stop production of widows and orphans; invest in the infrastructure. Remember, once we’re one. We’ve to share and care again. We’ve to barter the unwanted with the wanted. Life rusts in revenge and rivalry. First published in "Verbal Art : A Global Journal Devoted to Poets & Poetry", India Reprinted in "Selected Poems Anthology 2018" by Pendle War Poetry, the UK