Metamorphosis Poem by Namita Rani Panda

Who is that digger
who trespasses tiptoed
in to my Valley of Death
in my dark deep slumber
and laboriously disinters my mummies
buried in the deepest deep
with no shovel,
with love in his caring hands
and disappears silently
slinging on his shoulder,
one by one,
tirelessly
after planting saplings
of hope and happiness?
Like a patient in the operation theatre
under the influence of anaesthetic,
I lay silently
experiencing the painful pleasure
and he carries away all my mummies
preserved since long,
embalmed with gloom and despondency
without leaving any trace of the tombs
to bury them in his deepest depth.
And my Valley of Death
is a Tyrolese Valley now
with flowers and greenery all around.
Catacombs of mine are now halls of prayer
with divine light,
no mournful dirge,
only and only blissful prayers.
Who is that benevolent digger?
Isn't that you dear?