Death Poem by Sasanka Sekhar Panda

The graves, Smashan-ghats*
tombs and cemeteries
all full of bones, darkness
and haunting melodies
and death in its demonic wings
enveloping the void.

It is just like a silent voice
and black magics and orgies
wrinkled foreheads
with designs of time.

It is just like the autumnal air
the unbearable tropical Indian summer
and the pale gravity
of the exasperated winter,
it has foot everywhere
all the time.

It is just like a sea storm
with thousand claws.
It sweeps every thing
It lies everywhere.
Its palm's black shadow envelopes
the whole air, water
and the earth.
Beware
it may encounter you anywhere
any time, any moment.

* Smashan-ghat: The place where the Hindus burn their deads on funeral pyre.