By-: Nunglekpam Premi Devi
Independent Scholar
How fearful when I hear Death?
‘Death’, a drama; one fearful sequence!
My heart beats faster, faster as it could;
My pulses pumps higher, higher as it could be;
Trembling deep inside, inside my veins running through;
How pathetic I feel such fearing impulses?
‘Death’ a monster; ‘death’ so horrifying scare!
Feeling too uneasy within me, panicking worried;
When it happens; It’s just turns a huge gruesome;
‘leikai mi leitre’ ‘leikai mi leitre’ ‘leikai mi leitre’
Waves; waves after waves, spread across the lounge;
‘Voice’ so heavy, darkening each other’s spirit;
Trembling and scattering; favoring no brighter sequence;
Shadowing illness and darkening every soul alive trolling.
Can’t it be contented, Sound and freshly?
Quizzing thousands motives, I freeze to null;
Crying and shouting, sobbing and weeping;
Kicking and pulling, thrashing and beating;
Craving and carpeting, cutting and hammering;
Sickening through nerves, how painful the scenic troll is?
Losing all my egos, I shattered plain dull and dismay;
‘White’ as I see; ‘white’ as it goes flapping lively;
Smoking waves across lamenting higher,
Potting garnishing and waging spirit;
Oh! How crucial the trolling life and death?
Wailing and groaning rhythmically gesture after gesture;
Echoing far through the meadows, blow after blow,
Carrying me away striking far into the never, never land.
‘Tung-tung-tung’, ‘gwai-gwai-gwai’,
‘Tung-tung-tung’, ‘gwai-gwai-gwai’,
I fear the most, worst and terrible sounding;
Can’t it be simple, flowery and freshly?
I Wonder, ‘living’ so simple hardworking and ripening,
But ‘Death’ ‘it’s a fearing ‘troll’, a naked truth fearing;
That broom, that whisking ‘yangkok’, that clothe;
Those drum, that instrument, that noise;
Ah! Worst ever part, can’t be partition delight;
That sadistic and murmuring soul’s journey,
Something changes, hovering over dark clouds within;
Whispering and spelling fright, swallowing monster,
One after another, it’s a miracle happening;
Gathering and rumoring, strengthening and judging,
All but a life after ‘death’ it’s a living fashion;
I fear, fear those intuitions premonitory,
Capturing within my veins, flowing lively still,
Lingering those trolling, just a mare.
