Death has no caste
by Shahinur Islam
Death has no caste; life has many—
lofty and low levels, colours,
various tastes, various smells, alleys,
nooks and corners— and the roads rough.
He who walks along the darkness
where lies his crime? All the desires
of the deprived run out serving.
The moon enriched with the riches
of others are fully joyous—
the amazed stars only whisper.
The trees that bear flowers are not
theirs if they are not mature.
So death has no caste— whether it’s
premature or immature death,
whether mature or watery—
everywhere is denial, assault—
everything is forms, vogues of life.
Death is a one-coloured, lonely,
friendless tool, a host in oneself.
All the colours, all the flavours,
all grand arrangements of the life
are blasé to it in a flash;
yet festive mood of work of life
does never come to a finish.
Here it wins, here lies its singing;
So death seems to be gray and pale
to the all-around forms of life.