When Death Is Upon Me Close Poem by Aniruddha Pathak

Death’s when upon me close, whispering cold
Grey wisdom, but of too little avail,
I know I’m death-less soul, no body frail,
And death’s change of garment worn out and old,
I too know, soul kills nor ever is killed
To re-live old frustrations fanning fires,
Woken up wants, wishes, dreams of desires,
The soul’s here to till fated farming field.

Yet, hard it is to rid my me and mine,
To leave a field tilled and toiled to raise roots,
Whatso scriptures might say, desiring fruits,
Of no avail’s wisdom howso divine,
To soothe my heart in its desperate wail,
And wonder if divine courts grant a bail!
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The spiritual wisdom that the body is no more
than a garment, that the soul is immortal, that
one should rid all me and mine, and do one’s duty
without wanting fruits, is all right for the soul
that has evolved well. But for most of us who know
predominantly the lower self, the ego, death is
still very frightening. We often read scriptures
to an old man on a death bed. I wonder still such
11th day spirituality be of much help. The poor
man is desperate to go or get a bail, as it were!
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- Sonnets | 02.12.08 |