I return each night from the morgue The odor of corpses engulfing my nostrils, clothes, and hands When the clock struck 3.11 am, I hear the sounds of ambulance hooting I cover my ears with the quilt to not hear the wails of grief Grandma used to tell me stories of the Burha Dangoriya and the Jokhini But she never warned me about how disease can haunt a human race Maybe she knew Gen Z would believe not in stories but in lamentations and ruminations I had an unusual guest at the morgue today A 95-year-old lady, dying a natural death Can you imagine anything funnier than this? People dying a natural death and not of coronavirus? I could not even marry my beloved this Bohag, for I said: “My country needs me now” He said: “I would wait for you beside the Kolong river for the Bihuwaan” But last night at the morgue, a storm like the Bordoisila swept under my feet my mortal existence Fluorescent lights flooded my vision Squinting my eyelids, I screamed: “I am gasping for breath?” I looked up and saw, the clock struck 3.11 am But this time I could not cover my ears with the quilt For I ran out of time
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