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Monday, November 25, 2024

An Ode to Death

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Lekhanath Paudyal

It knows naught of mercy, forgiveness, love,
It makes neither promises nor mistakes,
And never is it content,
Indra himself may bow down at its feet, But it heeds not Indra’s plea,
It does not pick through the pile,
Dividing sweet from sour,
But checks through all our records;
It never strikes in error.

Kings and paupers are all alike,
It picks them up and bears them away,
Never put off till its stomach is filled;
Medicine’s cures present no threat,
Like an undying hunter, it moves unseen.

It bathes in pools of tears,
It dislikes all cool waters,
Without a dry old skeleton
It cannot make its bed,
It wears no more than ashes,
Sings naught but lamentation.

Everything is gulped straight down,
To pause and chew would mean starvation,
All that is swallowed is spewed straight out,
Nothing is digested, through long ages,
Death’s hunger never sated.


(from Adhunik Nepali Kavita 1971)

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