A group of young boys march up a steep hill, their innocent eyes guiding them. Their short breaths create mysterious clouds for the winds to blow on, they smile at each other and talk about their home in the mountains. Merrily inching their way slowly towards death, patriotism fueling their hearts. Their soft hands hold onto the rugged butt of the battered rifles, praying to them for their lives, with the god of war on their minds they move ahead.

Like sheep to the wolves the boys are sent to first line of offence. They look at themselves with sweat dripping on their faces, they smile at each other remember home and charge the enemy flanks like lightening. Their war cry in unison “AYO GORKHALI!” their khukuris flinging freely in the wind. Hundreds die a thousand left with injuries.

They still keep their smile now with dilated pupils with adrenaline to thank. They captured point zero three eleven and sent the enemy forces back with unpleasant memories to never forget. Now in the base camp the boys try to spot their friends so that they can return home, but all they find are dogtags with blood and khukuris scarred by the enemy for their families to remember them by.

They keep up the spirit and tell tales to each other and sing songs of love and war. Still fighting for their families still living for others on the edges of a sharp sword, the world glorifies them and remembers the brave heroes, but their nation remembers them as mere guards and aliens from a land far far away.



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