Death And Life, A Twain Poem by Aniruddha Pathak

And death once told a much defeated life:
Life is no life if lived on edge of knife,
If struggles for survivals soaked in strife,
You see, life comes with many a death rife.

But pure death I'm, with death is rife all life,
And heard I've of life asking on deathbed,
Pray, tell me Death, how long ere I'm all dead?
Life lives on a daily dose of strife rife.

To this said I: straightening up, stiff head,
Moments when like long minutes stretch ahead,
Minutes when look like endless hours instead,
Hours hang for days, days for years ere life's dead.

Remember, life's lived moment to moment,
And measured is in a moving moment,
Forget not: death alone is permanent,
I dwell in life from birth, and live dormant;

Freedom there's from life nor yet from death's pall,
Death changes only bricks of prison wall,
Petty, O Life and Death, seems your quarrel,
None taller is, none on a pedestal.

Life traces tiniest of graph nigh blurred,
Poem of life's metered nor yet measured,
It begins much like a fledgling young bird,
Next breath when taken not, end is unfurled.

Eons pass sans measure for endless time,
Nor does clock tick, nor dare at hours to chime,
Rocks break to sand, time stills nary a rhyme,
Stones grind unto grains, earth turns into lime,

A journey of countless births starts with life,
That ends when death triumphs over all strife.
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Musings | 09.08.12 |
Topic: life, death, journey