His eyes open, gaze fixed,

His hand on the trigger still intact,

The bloody chest that took the bullets

Froze in red, telling his tale.

A tear skipped from his eye,

And remained frozen as snow engulfed him.

Why did he shed a tear,

What was his worry or fear?

Was the tear speaking of his family and friends 

Whose thoughts crossed his mind,

As the bullets pierced through him,

Did he realise he wouldn’t meet them at all?

Was the tear a testament to his valour,

A trophy to his accomplishments,

The points he conquered,

Before he was martyred?