Like a harbinger of pogrom
Missed direction or so
Walked, stealing away slowly
Though sensed, no one knew
Who, he came for.
Uncertainty filled the atmosphere
Hearts wizened in fear and terror
Ill at ease, still bed ridden
Destined for this end
No escaping it, no denying the moment
Like the joy of birth,
So it should be in death
One, is of coming, the other, is of going.
One bidding welcome, the other farewell
Like untrue, but painfully true
The beginning of an end
The coming of age and nurturing of life
For a loved one, a father
On, bed number 30.
