Thursday, September 22, 2011


The dying weep for the dead*
Or more for themselves
Than for the prone figure
Stretched out on the bier
The mourners come near
With a trace of fear
Stunned by a blow
That has fallen nearer
Something that cannot be dismissed
Like the funeral procession
Of a stranger
One meets on the way
The final moments
Are told and retold
There is the veiled criticism too
That he ignored the symptoms
Did not take treatment earlier
That he was somehow to blame
For his own end
It makes the dying
More comfortable
To think that this
Could have been avoided
As they listen
To the chatter of life
The birdsong
And savour the warmth
Of the sunlight
Filtered by the trees.


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