O death! You’re like poetry
And I’ve been promised by a poem, that it shall be mine
As the pulse (of life) recedes, the pain & suffering go to (an eternal) sleep
And a yellowish (young) moon starts to rise and reach its zenith
The day is yet to sink in water, as the night waits, nigh, to the shore
It’s not dark, it’s not bright
it’s neither midnight nor high noon
And as the body loses material, the free soul gets seeped with (fresh) air
The poem has (fulfilled the) promise of being mine!