In the reckless fires of hate, he lies timid
Stripped off all his dignity
Mockery, which was once pity
For a crime he never did.

He has an enchanting look about him; a groom perhaps
Something driven into his vermillion heart; rage
His muscular thighs, scrunched under countless mishaps
Abandoned by life’s passage.

Who shall say to him, “Wake up!
It’s time.” Who shall, upon seeing him, call,
“Son, you’ve grown tall!”
Ask them; was it poison or syrup?

He was my mate, a man too mellow
Aiding him shall have given me pride
But how does a corpse get assisted by the fellow
Who rests in the placid grave beside.

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