I hear my death knell,
The battle lost –
I get ready to die.
I have no more than a jiffy,
To face my death;
I see a thousand eyes,
Prying my every move;
I decorate myself with the best ornaments
And the finest silk sari.
I sense the armour of my fallen man shielding me
I walk with all my grace to the open
And join a thousand others who’re befallen my fate.
I close my eyes and picture the arrow that pierced my husband's flesh
I jump into the raging fire amidst wild screams.
I recall the sparkle in my man’s eyes when we married: Ecstasy.
I open my eyes and see the fire’s still eating into my flesh.
I close it shut and picture my man’s valour: Pride.
I pray to be welcomed by my man in the world I’m going: Hope.
I’ll not be captured in the land that felled my man, the world I am leaving: Sati.

PS: Sati was an ancient Hindu practice where the widow would voluntarily/forcefully kill herself jumping into the funeral pyre of the husband.

powerful write. nice job!

Thanks!

Thank you for sharing.

Each day feels closer to that fire,
Though I would not sacrifice
my breathing that way.
Alone is enough of a death.
Some moments, days, minutes,
seem longer than some.
Still, I breathe and with thanksgiving.
He dies his own,
I live, alone.
s