The long nights are to begin, soon

Here in the Vindhyachal hills

Where the last of cauliflower ears of the clouds

Have started gathering like sheep wool

To hear the dying mutter their final wish

With bated breaths (and perhaps to match oversized coverings) bailing out sunken guts

In fabrics... that's passed so many hands

As homeless as them, just a little more fortunate with the human touch

All remaining flesh and blood too shall cease, soon

When skins, brazen and rancid, would become haze

Over furrowed hillocks

Jagged like scorpion's back

Dead won't be commemorated. Or tombs erected

No sculptures or sepulchers

It's just pull back in mother nature

Where insects and dogs retreat to die

A retreat that can't and shouldn't be resurrection

Prevent. Spend a dime. Stow money. Pour hefty cents

When the air of Winter nights reek heavy with dead stench

Nobody kills nobody

No body walks with the buck

When the season is either frigid like December or fire like June

It always rests with the latter's sun and the former's moon