Death, Thy Servant, is at her Door

The last thread of breath
Escapes from her lifeless lips
.
.
.
Then the darkness sweeps…
… the last flicker of light in her blurring eyes
… the sound of silence on her fastened lips
… the acrid taste on her tongue that dwells for years
… the last blow of kiss of humid air on her cheeks

(There comes the sound of nothingness)
.
.
.

Then…
A LOUD BANG!...

(her statue collapsed
smashed into dust
carried by the tender wind)

-she-
becomes a part of the air they breathe


(“Death, thy servant, is at my door. He has crossed the unknown sea and brought thy call to my home…He will go back with his errand done, leaving a dark shadow on my morning, and in my desolate home only my forlorn self will remain as my last offering to thee…”
-Tagore, from Gitanjali)