Life As a Dream.

If life was dream Sculpted by death to trace Within its bound a clarity Undone by an impassioned heart. Perhaps death too was a dream Sculpted by life in fire On a face sickled in time To cut the dark night With scimitar of a moon. In a lost world Where should we go? Which door to knock? Men with indifferent faces Women stooped in drunken gait A world without the word Veiled figures in attires Standing at each door. In the garden Some blood soaked rags Hung by the wooden slabs Where the eyes of a dead man Looking for ever On the death’s face A shock of infinite Proportions Across the muted race.