Death, the inevitable no man can conquer.
Your mortal articles can buy you gold-coated earthen pots of friendship,
Puppets of love painted with broad smiles and latched onto gold strings,
High and glossy, empty monuments of glory for the keen seekers of gibberish gossip.
Why? Even the running stream of time can be stopped momentarily by flashing strips of paper with countable zeroes.
Yamraj’s buffalo is never stopped by a wall of currency notes,
Nor is his vision blurred by the smoke from a Mrityunjaya yajna.
He rises from our own shadows.
A companion we are born with until death.
An illusion that is dominant during the days
And hiding within its own insecurities at night.
Our shadow becomes the portal of death
When the pot of karma is full.
It’s level of fullness and the content determines your position in his majesty’s reign.
Whether you become a courtier or a slave,
Your times of service at hell or heaven,
And the body you shall retire back to.
And the cycle continuous within the circle of life and death.
Then how do we escape this sarcastic circle?
The answer is simple.
Follow the radius of the circle towards the center, where the almighty resides.
And on your journey along the radius, you’ll realize
That death is not just a withered flower
But the seed that follows.
That death does not snatch away the things your name proudly held
But makes you realize that nothing was yours in the first place.
That death never wrecked you or the people whom you held dear,
But freed you from the chains that bound you to the material world.
And that, the almighty is sarvaswa.
The time you merge with the almighty,
My friend is the time you’ve conquered death.