Dialogue On Non-Death

Drowning her children back in her womb, a big tear rolls down the cheek of earth. She was sitting on broken bones to watch the terror, ear for ear to listen, eye for eye to see. Hope was becoming ephemeral. Nostalgia for breathing in, the scented grains of death’s fruit, no analogue, no relics of blood and a ceremony of water, soil and wood. All gone. It is a battered rubble back to back, autoclaved, clean. We walk back, heads bowed, shaven, absolutely fouled with no immediate answer. Was there a dialogue on non-death? SATISH VERMA