At night, I woke up shivering,
Quivering, quirky dreams
Dreaming.
Salty sweat covered my body,
As i lay, lay dreaming of you,
And your death.
The funeral procession,
An orthodox obsession,
Was marked by your dead body
Lying on a scarlet stretcher.
Fetcher of which were four strong men.
Your mother, wearing a dead pan expression,
the old broken lady as she is, was heard muttering,
'First my husband, now not my daughter! ' while those who came,
Hogged with no bother.
I remember clearly,
As if I wasn't dreaming, but only,
Witnessing your scarlet death bed,
With you, like a pale wilted lotus,
Warm and soft, wrapped in your,
White shroud.
In the midst of all this I found, myself,
Bitterly shedding tears and
Filled with an acute sense of loss.
And all hope had gone,
As I trudged through the funeral hall.
Once outside, I lit a fag,
Which from my lips sagged,
As I overhead an old couple say,
That you have gone to a better place.
Heaven, they said, is where you have gone,
But how could that be when,
your heaven and hell were beside me all along.
As I drew a mournful drag,
From the fag, which still sagged,
A wave passed me through and though,
And I thought, what really would have become of you?
"We break into a flock of pigeons upon our death "
I remember I had once said,
When we were sitting in that crack,
Of that gigantic wall, of Cannaught Place.
So could it be that you are a flock of pigeons now? Or maybe a colony of ants? A pride of lions, somewhere in japan.
But as the fag finished and I came back,
It made me feel hollow,
That you were dead.
I could have dreamed more,
Maybe to the point of
Your coming back,
But I couldn't dream anymore,
The sense of loss was much to bear,
So u woke up in cold sweat, and wrote,
What came to my head.
