• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 06

A Pandemic Poem

Surreal times call for strange poems,
Let’s have shards, slivers of paper,
Coat them with cast iron and add rust.

Such a poem won’t work, so unbecoming,
So, how does unchecked fear work,
In times of deaths and disease then?

A human becomes a walking corpse of fear,
Hordes of people blame some other masses,
This and that flows all around us.

Over two months to distill this poem,
Writings, rewritings, marks, erasures,
A palimpsest of sorts, a distillation.

Two hundred millenniums to become human,
Deaths, lives, wisdoms, parodies, wanderings,
A palimpsest of sorts, a distillation.

A pandemic comes, it rages, ravages cities,
Distillations of poems and humans go for a toss,
Walking corpses of fear converge upon me.

What is death to a good citizen?
It is the telling of abuses, throwing of insults,
Losing oneself in the swamp of invectives.

Old, dear friends are now corpses of walking fear,
Their empathy and sense vanish into masked air,
This is apocalypse and I have seen it near.


A Pandemic Poem

I do not fear death; we die and become humus,
So much like becoming human all over again,
But it is their fear that I fear the most now.