This Death Is Not of Our Ilk

The sky decked in a clean blue saffron
Fair-faced; a mild offering to air-farers of all kith and kin
On glitzy wings sailed this aircraft – Boeing MD83 that afternoon
Who would have known that Death awaited in the wings?

A pleasant Sun-day; the golden crown of the Sun adorned the tropics
Exposing the azure sky in blissful splendor
The city’s skyline gilded with rising towers, a view as grand as is scenic
Grating Hell’s fury to a pitch of volcanic fervor

A mother awaits her baby girl, fresh flower in a vase
A pep in her stride – so heavy a burden upon her arthritic feet
China dishes from the treasury of antiquity to grace
This banquet for a child well deserving of a feast

And in some part, a wife whose hubby’s kiss from a while ago
At the departure terminal, still warm upon rosy cheeks
Set upon the task of getting lunch on the way
Down came a bird, nicking off the earth with flapping wings and beak

What it sought- burial plots, not a runway to perch
Seven scores and thirteen graves marked by the metal wings of Dana
Of the husband never to return to his perfect match
And the daughter whose room still lay floating with the “Welcome-Home” banner

This Death is not of our ilk
A sky plunderer, defiling the Sun
Breaking upon its virgin modesty in a skip
Sourly faces and crushed hearts in grieving tears borne.

A sight for sore eyes it is…

To see living faces shriveled in deathly parlor
And sunny smiles evaporated with the cold touch of Death
Bodies deprived of that last concession of peace and stately grandeur
Lay upon the mind, a dreadful portrait hanging in the air like a bad breath

Of Death ogling life with such unyielding zest
Fuelled by the ravenous flame from the groins of Hades
Eyes intent upon life’s full, warm and supple breast
His mission; to break upon that surging fullness till to nothing it fades

And fade it did…

Beauty and innocence wiped off with brutal shortness
What was the last contention of the soul on this fatal descent?
As death overruled a mother’s appeal for her four children with rash curtness
While sighs, anxiety and fears brokered the air in strange accents

I tell you, this Death is not of our ilk
Bears no soothing, can’t be bought, so we howl – a dog’s bark at the wind
At a corner- life’s blind spot – cut he to the quick
Falling bodies like an axe-man upon earth’s inclement field

And his victims…

Picked clean of life and all its appearances
A burnt offering on the altar of Dana to the plundering grave.


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