The mystique, called death

The longest mile, to the shortest stretch
That moment of trial, recalls we etch
On a heart, that defies, the truth of end
We lift our dead, on solemn sighs, to send

On that last pilgrimage, of no return
What’s a cold man’s creed? We bury, or burn!
On the edge, of grave, as we bid goodbyes
On seething pyre, as we bewail a demise

Of that body we loved, whose life undone
We called something, to that someone
Was it agony’s height, or a weak soul’s plight?
Unnerved, traumatized, by a dead man’s sight!

As we grieve that loss, what loss is it?
A man gone to grave, his being’s every bit?
Or that life, we cherished, day-to-day
Until his soul, chose to walk away

Undone jobs, unfinished joys, so to say
Death, the final toll of life, we all pay
Life a cynical lie, death the only certainty
Inevitable trap, we fall into, since eternity

As we bemoan, the mortal cost, in vain
Soul settles, the worth of life, in pain
What lies beyond, that lost body’s story?
Is the labor of soul, its everlasting glory

Where we believe, the end begins, of man
Lies the beginning, of God’s divine plan
Soul molts over, millions of forms
Anew with every birth, a man transforms

They ain’t lost yet, in the soil or ash
They live thru legends, our hearts stash
Of how souls bloom, on the piles of remains
Brilliant blossoms, on the shrines of pains

Over ages, same face-off, betwixt the two
A man and his end, a soul sees through
The endless race, to redeem every breath
That immortal embrace, the mystique, called death

© 2015 Vikas Chandra


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