The Gift of Death

The gift of death, and one can only say,

Is a special one, at the end of the day.

When life betrays for reasons unknown,

When the essence evaporates, leaving it alone,

An end to it is what one cordially craves,

As a child in the mother's lap, to lie in graves.

The gift of death, and one can only say,

Is a special one, at the end of the day.

When life is engulfed in amiable meloncholy,

When the allure abates, making it unholy,

Lively death alone appears the pleasing part,

As an artist finds solace only in his art.

The gift of death, and one can only say,

Is a special one, at the end of the day.

When life gets scarce of zeal and appetence,

When the fun fades, causing it repentance,

The other bank of death seems winsome,

To the desert's inhabitants, fertility welcome.

Yes, the gift of death is indeed a special one,

It is a surprise, will be guessed by none.

It is once in a lifetime, that too, in the end,

Destined, no negotiation and nothing to amend,

The consequences of action in life shall be met,

Wait patiently, everyone is entitled to get !