आज जो मिट गया है दर्द, अपने भी पराये हो गए।।
My sexton is the vulture's jaw;
He'll bury me by the wanderer's law
In open field or cloistered cave.
The buzzing flies will make up my shroud,
As the wind howls my death lament.
While I convulse through my last torment,
They chant my rites clear and loud.
The vagrant at last shall come to stay,
In the maggot's fattening zest.
May I think I've found eternal rest
As my tissues ferment away?
But for peace I shall pray in vain,
For my bones roll on upon the plain.
(Published in GloMag, December 2015 p72)