My Own Waste-land
My Own Waste-land May is the cruellest month, breeding Hopes Of recovery That are mown like the Abundant greenery Which recklessly sprung Now rotting On the path To lose one friend Whose always pampered fur Is now smothered with The spongy, not parched, soil Cheerfully welcoming Tears from the sky [ Heavens have been Weeping (what a cliché) For more than a week ] Seemed too much To bear My Fisher-king of snails now He is Silence piercing the hollow Of our ears Fills the home Like cry against The laws of nature Nostrils devoid of The smell of Another living creature Of reek of The dying creature Cannot believe in Purity of air To lose another friend then Seems a joke Will it help , recalling Our discussions on the eternity Immortal values and infinite Qualities of art Its responsibilities To bear witness To those who cannot speak any more Now you are numb and Death gagged you Biology ...