A Death Toll Poem by Sadiqullah Khan

It was none, and it is now three
It is not a digital watch, it is not a scoreboard
It flies in double digits; it stretches its perverse teeth
From mortuary to hospitals. It defies beliefs. They say
You go to hell or heaven straight, no waiting, resting
In peace. For they don't find one. They are dead flesh
Mixed bones, breathing air from each other's
Gasping mouths. They are found, in ditches or rolled
Over. The carriers of death, wearing wings of the angel
Of death. Who decide, where, how and whom this time.
The death toll is now fifty, and may stop at eighty.
All these paths, lonely, tired and sick, lead to my home only.