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How ironic this world tended….

Air not passing

everything ended.

Of how they were dead,

Chit-chats of their journey,

Battered through those sheds…

Soulless were made

Mortal with dresses and flowers

Over their beds.

Heirs and kins

Carried their life,

Over their heads.

Beauties and charms


Chants and prayers for their

Next life were said.

Merging into

Panch tatva

Was then lead.

The decorated


Then covered with wood….

Agni presented to it,

Kins hearts shattering with,

Every smoulder of the dead.

Day then spent,

Prospecting a life

To be a mere ash ahead.

Now getting ready,

For a mini cradle bed …


Now is the state…

As I write

These lungs choke,

And throat aches,

With faces holding

No position for air to hit …

For pens not taking up

The responsibility to

Splash ink,

Over these sheets…

The distancing

Increasing ….

How will I

Carry the fear of 19?

Already tiring my words with worry…

Womb of a mother!

Gave this up ;

What was gifted to us!

Were now being paid for?

To not make

Their lungs stuck in a fuss.

This 19

divine made us separated,

From one another.

And that was not for a while….

The lifeless were wrapped,

Nor decorated,

Nor prayed for new cradles,

The existence and

Composition all


Thrown into a stack,

And burnt without care.

Of how soulless that soul

Might be gone.

With it’s skin being;

Treated as a mere

Slack once born


                                                                         ~ Khushi Gandotra 

                                                                            Jammu, India


  1. So beautifully written ???

  2. Beautiful ❤❤You’re a star

  3. Keep it up ❣️

  4. Incredible work. You are an inspiration!!!

  5. itika Kaur

    What a great piece of work. Keep it up…

  6. Syed Sufiyan

    Amazing, keep going you’re good at this ✨

  7. So beautiful ? ??

  8. Amazing di go on !!!???

  9. Amazing ✨✨

  10. Prachi Suri

    Waow ! ? Amazing ❤️❤️

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