When I will die
My memory will disappear
Like the dunnest smoke in the air
Sorrow lasts
Not more than a week,
Less than a month
And never a year
When I will die
Sorrows all disappear.
What is death?
It is a noose if I am hanged
It is the devouring tongue of fire
If I am on the pyre
It is a mound of grass
If I am buried
It is the fear In the mind of a drowning man
Or sleepless night in prison or in a police van.
Death is a boring Sunday
Memories curling all around
Death is an unfinished song
An incomplete letter,
An already written poem
Which no one can make better.
When I will die 