Death

The kerosene lamp,
A small bottle of pesticide,
Fitted with a tin ipia and a wicker,
Lit the living room,

Where the old man,
In the throes of death,
Lay on a torn grimy rush mat,
Spread over a limp coir mattress,
Upon a shakier bed,

Placed against the white-washed wall,
On the cracked cement-floor.

The burning wicker,
Fast sucked the shallow pool of oil,
And cast huge, ungainly shadows,
On the white-washed walls,
Which looked like the minions of death themselves.

The howling of invisible dogs in the streets,
Along with the ominous hooting of an invisible owl
Hung on the cold, nocturnal wind,
And brought home a dark presentiment,
Giving shudders to his wife, son and daughter,
Surrounding his bed.

He opened his eyes and coughed drily,
And the glow of the lamp suddenly brightened,

But it shrank into flicker,
As the dying man closed his eyes.

The pale light grew dimmer and dimmer still.

And went out.