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
Beheaded.
Chants and prayers for their
Next life were said.
Merging into
Panch tatva
Was then lead.
The decorated
Lifeless
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
Degrading.
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
So beautifully written ???
Beautiful ❤❤You’re a star
Keep it up ❣️
Incredible work. You are an inspiration!!!
What a great piece of work. Keep it up…
Amazing, keep going you’re good at this ✨
So beautiful ? ??
Amazing di go on !!!???
Amazing ✨✨
Waow ! ? Amazing ❤️❤️