You look around to find
A mural of eyes.
Amused and judging.
Tired and questioning.

A heap of dust freshly cremated,
Now sweeped under the rug of ruins of your memories,
Has gained sentience of its own?
And all living are but dumb spectators.

And how shamefully must the ash,
Raise in swirl to far and wide when gift of life is gone.
To come kiss the angel of death,
In the dawn's cruellest light to comprehend it was living once.

And you have mocked death in your pretence,
Feared her in your dreams and pushed her away,
Ushered her embrace in your darkest stretches,
But never did she emanate before this Twilight in her natural skin.

And now the eyes won't hear you,
Trembling to strir and speak of what's revealed.
Life shall fleet with her golden flow,
And death at the threshold sings patiently, "live, live, and live!"
-Divyosmi Goswami