“Time’s up!”
Yama roared in his usual baritone
With a partially wilted, perishing frame and wizened soul
Succumbing to the eternal sleep, the eternal silence was so facile
Malady, Melancholy, Patriarchy– paved the way for despair
All I saw were barren lands
All I heard were shrieks of insanity
But, dying is not an art, is it?
O Apollo,
Kiss and lubricate my parched lips
For me to blossom once again in my erstwhile glory
For me to tell the world–
“Yes, I have floated on the iceberg of Death, but my grit was too firm for it to melt.”
Staffy Bhateja
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