Flapping feathers of hooters
From every corner of the house
Afraid of the fall of night
Dead sweats each on their brow
Butterflies over another, dead!
Mother flies on schedule for dirge
The young birds on the door step
Of the mourning undertakers
Who now would carry the dead,
Upon its heavy shoulders?
Whom is braver! Brave enough
To hum the night dirge
Without hotness accompanying
The flood of his heavy eyes
If then one is found, and marches
Unto the field
The field that is filled with cold figures, would refuse to welcome
Another sojourner
Into its space-less apartment
If no more, the field accepts
Our cold sojourners,
Then no more would we weep
But to leave them naked on the field
Defiled by mourning birds
For no more is this land a land
Of peace and tranquility
But of MOURNERS…!
