The Survivor

by Harshita Das aged 12

He knew he’d die someday
Even if he won a thousand wars
Albeit kings bowed at his feet
And red washed up his shore

So he wasn’t interested in winning bets
He didn’t care for a fight
As long as losing didn’t mean dying then
He’d never show his true might

He could take his honor and eat it up
Echoes would be heard of his shattering pride
For he knew he’d always win
As long as health was on his side

He’d let his arm be cut, if he
Were the one delivering the final blow
For the stain of blood would heal
But dead for life, would be his soul

Because winning is not about not losing
It’s about surviving
If you lose, and let your arm be cut,
You might just be the one
Winning in the end

The Poetry Zone

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