a poem by P.K.N. Panicker, India

As I visualise the spectre of death
a wall of stillness shuts me off from the world,
a gulf of silence swallows up my senses,
leaving only the burden of pain
to witness my life gets cut off from time.

As time moves on
everything that has an identity dies
and moves into a world with no identities,
no names,
leaving the past a mere history.

Even so a question lingers on.

Am I merely a formless form
that no thought nor sight could define
or merely a moving wave,
one among many
bound to sink into a boundless sea of waves?

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