Black squirrel from winter prior,
lying in the litter of the underground lot,
the blooms have already scattered
and the flies buzz fat and unwelcome,
why do you still refuse to rot?

Does the warming of winds mean little to
you? Does the passing of days do nothing to
you? When Death came to take you did he
not tell you of your path to decay?

Humans hung from trees and mothers
discarded on the side of streets, all
have turned to bone and tattered cloth.
Even barely alive infants show their
ribs and emaciated zygomatic arches
for the world to see, and yet you lie
here without care and disdain for the
deathly fate they all must suffer?
Stout, plump, portly, fur unruffled.

Tell me, how do I find peaceful slumber
when my time too comes? How do I
die in a bed of leaves and sleep away,
unaffected by all that happens, only
stirring when finally the ṣūr is blown?



© Walyullah