The Funeral

The sky is devoid, of a single cloud,

The mood is grey,

As the mourners pray,

Gathered around the corpse, wrapped in a shroud;

Fifty human hearts are beating,

A hundred human eyes are tearing,

Albeit not does one apprehend,

The hysterical cries, pursuing solace;

The clatters and groans,

The struggles and moans,

A final effort to prove oneself,

A concluding battle, with death itself;

Piercing screams, are uttered in an attempt,

To break the bonds, of eternal repent,

These desperate endeavours, are rendered redundant,

As the chains of mortality, have long since tarnished;

Perseverance obeys and permits the battle to advance,

With life does death, a final dance,

The priest drones on, offering enlightenment,

While the mourners receive, deaf to the ongoing cacophony;

Do what may,

The battle is won,

While the efforts are earnest,

Perpetual are the pains;

The frenzied sounds, now cease to a moan,

For human is human, and pain once grown,

Is potent enough, to consume us whole,

As seen, when the reiterating screams, turn to sporadic moans;

Fifty human hearts were beating,

A hundred human eyes were tearing,

Albeit not did one apprehend,

The final combat, of death with strength;




xx Diya Bahukhandi