Reading Time: < 1 minute
A poignant poem about death due to Corona, by Dr. Amrinder, exclusively for Different Truths.
What sort of dying is this? Solitary, silent, in isolation wards Without a glimpse of your loved ones Each breath a gasp, as you desperately Clasp, the ‘hand of God’ A glove filled with warm water that, A thoughtful nurse put in your hand For a final, comforting illusion. What sort of death is this? When your own, fear the contagion you carry? Zipped up in bags, by impersonal hands You are carried in the hospital hearse, by Men, afraid to lose their jobs, if they refused; Straight from the mortuary to the pyre. Where, but a handful of relatives gather And bribe, to make haste with the funeral fire. What sort of mourning is this? With no beloved’s body to cry over, No friend, no neighbour, sister, cousin With, not a single shoulder to cry upon Not a soul, to help you vent and tide over The initial deluge of unbearable grief, To offer solace and emotional closure, For Corona has branded you too. What sort of prayer meeting is this? Over Zoom! Goodness! To what use Has technology been put! When earlier, there’d be funeral feasts And for years, the family, would boast Of the crowd that gathered to Make speeches, eulogise and, Pay homage to their deceased.
Visual by Different Truths
