About a year ago, I wrote a poem by the title: Suicide. My cousin happened to read that. He got pretty much worried about me and delivered a fairly long lecture on how’s life and how it moves on. He asked me to rewrite the poem with a new and better subject but I barely got that in my head. This was the original ‘Suicide’
Isn’t it a suicide that I ‘v committed?
How could I do that? How I permitted?
All my enthusiasm, all that passion
Drowned in hell while a horrible session
All those relations, all my friends
Those courageous scorns, all resolute trends
Instead of making me stout, they all de-powered
All turned me into a contemptible coward
I could not fight a battle of throne
Holding their dreams and countering my own
What a pity this is, I fancy
I could not occupy a single vacancy!
Alas! I let down their fervent feather
And my will was not satisfied either.
Then, after about six months, I woke up one morning and strolling through my diary, I happened to feel like rewriting the poem. The title I gave it was: His Last Murmur and here goes the next part.
But now, I have this desperate wish
If, in any case, I were a pheonix!
For rising from the ashes is all I need
To do the due and relish my creed
Listen, dear son! Mark my word’!
Grasp the echo of a fainting bird
If dying without turning a single leaf
You didn’t deserve this life so brief
“Be successful” is not a phrase of fate
You gotta earn it, at any rate!
Die today or die tomorrow, however,
Make it deserving and you live forever.
The point is that life never ends unless you stop breathing. It DOES move on. Cheers!