Soon I shall be gone

Will there be anyone to mourn?

There will be nothing but a stone

Resting on the bones of a life, stillborn.

 

The pages of my torn book,

The manuscript that no one would look,

Would litter the boneyard

Like leaves swept by a solemn wind, southward.

 

Time would stand muted, holding the empty end

Of a broken kite-string that it failed to mend.

The destiny, the dream, both wounded from a life-long fist fight

Would sing the requiem of a life’s plight.

 

The meaning of my work, hard to know

When I am alive and shouting now

Would in the end,  dawn on this world

When beneath the earth, silently I curled.

 

~Trilok~