The Warrior Prince Of Travancore

On a bed of flowers atop sandalwood logs,
Lay the crown prince,
As if in sweet slumber,
Barely a lad,
Not yet a man,
Grasped by death ,
In timeless glory,

Full shock of black curly hair,
Framing, a face of smiling innocence,
Never kissed by womens lovely lips
Other than his mothers the queens.
Always the warrior,
Always the patriot,
Fighting the enemy.

Elevated kingdom on hillocks and plains,
Luxuriated by rain and sun,
Exotic greens and spices abundant,
Envy of neighbors from barren lands,
Collecting armies of brutes with common,
Hate for goodness and grace,
Stricking, at goodness as mistaken weakness,

Came in hordes, unnumbered,
Through passes in mountains,
Raising the fearful battle cry,
Bringing chaos to order,
And ignominy to honor,
Spreading dread and fear,
To war hardened warriors,

To leave the challenge to innocent youth.
Untouched by fear of defeat of death,
Laughing at the enemy in nonchalance,
Defending not life but the motherland
As if the mothers own purity,
And the fathers own honor,
Were threatened,
Rode the warrior the prince

Into battle.
A lost cause
Which was considered thus
But turned tables with unconcerned
Ends, the cleaving of the enemy into
Two halves, and the fleeing of both,
A victory for the kingdom

A loss for humankind,
And for a mother,
And many mothers,
For in the salvation of a kingdom,
Lay a Martyr,
Who was not yet a man.

Not a tear was shed,
Nor a word spoken,
For to do so would be,
To measure the greatness,
Of a spirit, unfettered,
In his love for glory
And love for motherland.