The Desert Bandit

Those blood shot eyes,that piercing gaze,
That tell the gory tale of the desert haze,
The battle that could have been won,
But for the curse of the stoned one.
But the bloodied jacket says it all,
Even the fiercest hunter met his fall.

The fiend of the desert,the lord of crime,
The frenzied butcher who kills for no reason nor rhyme,
The outlaw that the desert itself brewed,
Spiteful, cruel, calculating and shrewd,
The steely blue gaze that saw it all,
A deadly combination of brains and brawl.

His gait it is a struggled hobble,
Tons it speaks of a grueling struggle,
A scar brandished right across the face,
A remnant of the horrors of the final chase,
A man fighting life's losing battle,
The haggard of time, now a rudderless shuttle.

He killed not in revenge, he killed not in spite,
The sight of blood gave him pure delight,
From the common butcher to an insane kind,
From killing out of fear to when rage drove him blind,
A journey so long, a voyage of terror,
From a common thief, to a nation's terror.

As the blood splattered fiend trudges across the sand,
The bridle of his tired steed, a dagger in his hand,
Under his breath he curses, mutters and jeers,
In his mind he recites all his mortal fears,
Always on the guard, always on the run
Ready to slash, kill, shoot and burn.

- Sandipan Chakraborty