One day you will arrive.
Night will enter in your pores,
in your bones,
like a baby trapped in a borewell,
crying, striking,
thumping.
On each table, salt moaned
for a classical taste.
A pink moon was smothered
in a virgin bed.
Death walked in a sensual style.
A black discharge continued
from the areolae.
Botox failed to uplift
the sagging breasts.
A thallium capsule broke on tongue.
There was no suicide note.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Gosh! That was thoroughly depressing and yet well done. The body fails and the mind too I suppose. Still, the thought of suicide, and no note either is sad. I guess it does happen, although it would be nice to be like Moses who continued to walk with a spring in his step and a twinkle in his eyes even when he became ancient.