Swati Krishnan

My obit

Come sit near me and ask

Me why the sullen face,

Did your love die,
Or a part of you?
 
Why is everyone distant,
Living in his own world
Of tragedy, distrust and gloom?
 
Once in a while, hold my hands
Pat me on my shoulder
Poke my ribs
Even plants respond to touch.
 
Don't write great obits when i die
I won't be able to read them. 

 

All rights belong to its author. It was published on e-Stories.org by demand of Swati Krishnan.
Published on e-Stories.org on 01/13/2010.

 

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Le isole della pace (bersetzung von Inseln der Ruhe) - Ursula Mori (Life)
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