In comes the news of his death, a storm
unleashed, untimely and unwelcome.
I stare, appam and mutton stew in my mouth; Body
numb, soul frozen, I gulp down the pain; tender blobs
of meat tumble down my esophagus; Some linger between
the gums, the grieving few in the alley, uncouth,
untimely and unwelcome.
“He is just forty!”, I whimper; “Was” bellows the English
tutor in the mob. Lurid moments, bleeding hearts,
stinging eyes, hushed whispers among huddled bodies, sweat
down their temples; a dull scent of mutton stew permeates
a hole in our hearts; a meek rumble, a petite murmur,
a silent scuffle in my stomach, unforeseen
untimely and unwelcome.
Darkness descends; mourning cloaks the
moonless night; laments soaked in pain; a sea of
mutton stew in me, unsettling, untimely and unwelcome.
In the far distance, a howl, a sob, a scream, a whine,
slits the stillness of this stark, spiteful night; Heads turn,
feet shuffle, fears grip the soul; Eyes search the one whose
anguish is greater than ours.
A dark, lonely bat that lost its way? A scheming cyclone
seething on the western coast? The sturdy arms of the oak
writhing in the funeral pyre? the melancholy
maiden who lost her son in the village fair, unfortunate?
a beastly scoundrel striking his wife, unabashed? The silent
wail of the tender lamb inside, weighing me down, ever so
untimely and unwelcome?
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