8 million

I was carved—
chiselled from wood
as I grazed infertile land.

Shiny steel
protecting my perfect form
strained my muscular back.

If I quivered
you kicked
my belly or thighs—
loosening tight knots
with fizzling pain.

I didn’t want to.

I had no choice.

I had to gallop

through fogs of foul gas,
through fires and firings
of terrifying bangs.

I did it for you.

Fire burned a hole in my skin—
for you.

I was mired in mud—
for you.

8 million

I died.
For you.

They remember you.
They engraved your name.

But this chiselled wood
is nameless—we’re ‘8 million’.