The drums of death are beat again:
A second time this week,
A fourth instance in thirty days,
A ninth, this year, to leave.
Some old, some young, some middling years:
All too early in health.
All with dependents left alone
To make their way, unhelped.
A widow, a son, a widowed mum,
A daughter yet to wed,
A son, two daughters, and a son,
And now a widowed head.
And those like me with moneyed hands
Do grab the honeyed pills,
Away from beating hearts of death,
Away from any chills.
Is there a guilt in being alive
When those around have passed?
You’re asking him who’d rather live,
Even if he is last.
Minakhi Misra 