What actually is death, death is to you or for others, yours or theirs.
The stink of old humid newspapers,
the characters are washed up, the news of no use
the faces pasted with smiles, ants have eaten up right cheek
kids are older than my grandmother now
the hand in my mouth could not fathom words
there was an offshoot too, bright green
I have kept electric motors in that old box lost its sheen,
what date is today, when did I breath last time
I used to feel my last part of lungs getting swollen up
Now the dust fills my nostrils
All those memories are mixed in it
I fear that they will think I’m a seed
I don’t wanna sow me all over again
But no it won’t happen, it won’t happen
that was my last wish written on my epitaph
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