Don't tell me that a medal only counts if it is posthumous.

Don't tell me that a medal only counts
If it is posthumous.
Do not tell me that an injury counts
Only if you step on a mine or stop a bullet
For there are far more scars that I have inherited
There are far more injuries that I have taken in
Just going about doing my mundane job.
I stared out from my sentry post
And I have cried in the whiteout,
in my snow blindness,
into the howling, chilling winds.
And no one heard.
I cried into my stale khichhdi
I could not make out my tears
From the incessant rain that dripped into my khichhdi
from my porous raincape
As I opened a road for a convoy to pass.
Day in and day out,
from 1 AM to the following evening
Just stale khichhdi and a lurking IED for company.
Just going about my mundane job.
My injuries are in my mind, of my mind.
The injuries have made crevices within me
when I went into wars I didn't understand.
I am not as clever as you.
I cannot ratioanlise.
I do not understand this thing about a greater good.
But believe me I inherited unseen injuries
Going about doing my mundane job.
I am not posthumous and I am alive.
And I believe the medal that you pinned on my chest
For just being there, does count.