Walking Into Eternity... (A Poet's Death As Seen By The Angel Of Death) Poem by Amar Agarwala

It does not take the angel long to find the poet's home standing neglected and forlorn in the murky darkness of a cloudy night. Faint traces of light filters through the doorway and broken windows of the hut, and it makes her eyes veil over with deep sorrow, and she says:

Upon the broken wings of this endless night,
Distant stars shedding tears of light,
An errand I run in my heavenly flight,
Fathoming from my inner sight,
At the bottom of a little hill it lies
An old cottage sans worldly ties,
A lone candle braving the freezing north wind
Surrounded by some fireflies.

There sprawled on a bed is an enlightened soul,
Spreading light was whose only role,
Engulfed in near invisible glow so faint,
It would escape a mortal soul.
Its tepid radiance, I see with my eyes,
Endowed by the heavenly skies,
That sees the tallest mountains and deepest seas,
Knows all secrets and fervent pleas,
At the behest of heavens my deathly toll,
To gather a poetic soul,
Who eagerly awaits to give up his breath
And end his melancholic role.

I see dark and morbid clouds gathered along with the icy north wind, to mourn - the death of an unknown poet. Who lies huddled under a torn quilt, on his disheveled bed-spread, in the appalling dinginess of his cottage - a dark hovel ensconced in snow. As if nature had spread its cold, silken shroud upon it to keep it veiled from the ugliness of the neighborhood, where dimmed souls sleep in unease, lest their nightmares reflect their putrid shadows upon the radiance reflected from the parchments, where lies scrawled soul stirring verses of love and life, which ignorant mortals have valued not, nor could their ignorance fathom.

The young poet lies dying amidst trembling shadows; starvation and neglect writ large on his handsome weather worn face, covered in beard and pain. His eyes deeper than the darkness of the night, steeped in the harrowing melancholy of his existence that was nothing but a dark blur upon humanity. Yet, from deep within him, emanating from the recesses of his soul, pours a melody so sweet that nocturne pauses at his porch, listening to its mesmeric
strains in silent wonder.

His broken doors are ajar
As I alight upon his porch,
I smote not before I enter
With pale moonlight as my torch.
Feel like a devout pilgrim
The home not lesser than a shrine,
I pay obeisance to the ground
Which harbors a spirit divine.

His forgiving eyes stare at the door, seeking me desperately, but knowing not that I have arrived to end his anguished agony. I can see that he wishes for one last ounce of breath, not to live longer, but to conclude the incomplete verses of his, lyrics which float up to the surface of his fertile mind. His hands stir, but they reach not the pen nor the parchment kept near. Yet, I can read his mind, and suddenly wish I could write them down upon his yellowed parchments that lie carelessly strewn about the floor and on his battered desk, where a lone candle -

Is waxing fast,
Towards its last,
Holding steadfast,
Onto shadows cast.

His verses weave magic into the night and I savor every syllable he imagines:

Oh life! Let this be my last to you
My obeisance to approaching death,
Long last to be with my beloved -
Who comes closer with my fading breath!

Come onto my worn out, withered shell
Come embrace me sweetheart with your loving care,
Have counted moments for you to come
And engulf my being in your passioned snare.

I sought nothing of my measly life
Have heartily greeted its traumas and strife,
Can wait no longer to listen to,
The sweet soulful strains of heaven's fife.

Now let me sip sweet nectar divine
That flows from from mystic streams which in heaven's dwell,
An elixir sent to me by God
For lifelong agonies of mine it will quell.

I stand upon him, a deep compassion welling up from within, his parched throat seeking droplets of water, but none there to do so, save the dancing shadows of the fireflies and his ruffling parchments in the night wind, no soul to help wet his parched lips.

I softly caress his sallow brow
Then I touch my lips to his - my deathly kiss,
His soul stirring at the phantom touch
But his drooping eyes finding nothing amiss.

I embrace his withered shell ever so gently, and ease him away from him, he lets me do so and puts up not the slightest semblance of struggle. It is only then he sees me through the murky haze, clearer by the moment and smiles... he knows his final desire stands fulfilled!

I extend my hands and say, ‘Come with me... you have made the heavens proud."

To which he replies:
"The beauty I behold with my eyes
All desires of mine I forego,
Had I known death be so beautiful
Would have happily died long ago."

I hold his hand and say:
"Your verses are sweeter than honey
They made hearts shine with goodness and hope,
Your thoughts have been more precious than gold
Now to the heavens we shall elope."

He readily walks with me, but I ask him to wait for one last task that I still need to complete. I go near his olden self, and gently shut his eyelids, so that none else may stare into his eyes... not can after I have looked into their beauteous depths. I know not why I stand there looking at his empty shell, could it be an earnest desire cover him with shroud which befit him, for the torn quilt looks a piteous sight at his pious shrine. My heart's desire is fulfilled by the heavens; for a gust of frosty wind blows in from the open windows, carrying upon its fragile shoulders - snow flakes and a few dainty moon-flowers and gently strews them upon his remains.

I smile looking at the powdery snow-white shroud and fresh blooms, a sweet fragrance wafts though the cloistered precincts, as he watches it all in wonder and in bemusement, that heavens long last gave him what the mortal world denied... a semblance of pride and honor, a little love and respect which he yearned for life-long and finally received it.

"Am speechless in gratitude..." he says.

"Nay... ‘Tis not you but the heavens which owes gratitude at yours being so wonderful in your the duties assigned to you... to make this world more beautiful and adorn hearts with love and joy."
And then I carry him with me upon a chariot of light, to the sparkling gates of heaven. He turns not back, but I do, just once as the wind snuffs out the dying flames of the candle, drowning the cottage into a snowy darkness. The icy winds wailing about, showering wisps of snow, its wails embracing slivers of pale moonlight sneaking through the clouds, then easing through the open windows of the old hut near the hills and casting a halo around the snowy casket, in which a poet lies in eternal sleep.

Many many years later, when reason dawned upon civilization and love en-capsuled the cruel hearts of men, they built a shrine near the hills, upon the yard where once stood the poet's cottage. Celebrated his birth and death with fervor and found reasons to admire his verses... they hailed him as a legend.
Even today, he sees it all from the gates of heaven and smiles at the drama the God's devise and mortals enact, then he writes his musings with golden ink upon silvery parchments:

If not in life, then be it beyond
Heaven forgets not a noble soul,
‘Tis a tragedy mortals have not
The eyes or heart to fathom their role.

The sweet angel of death yet visits him when he sits near sparkling heavenly springs penning his thoughts. He is always happy to see her, as she is happy to see him, she enjoys the little verses he quickly scribbles for her... the last one being:

I spend a lifetime
Waiting for the right time,
Now that you are near
The time is here... at last!

She smiles bewitchingly, for she gathers what the verses mean, but she only stares lovingly at him with her ocean blue eyes and utters no word. She knows that he reads them well... poet that he was and will ever remain so, much like their togetherness would remain - until eternity!
********************