One weighed his miseries on a piece of cloth
on the ceiling fan

The hands that pumped life into the harmonium
lay still in the sweet cocktail made of death

Death entices like a cascade,
a ravishing beauty

When the claps ceased
the trophies gathered dust and rust
the empty playground consumed the mind
he joined the pace of the rail tracks
He saw the stress of a decisive penalty kick

None knows the language of those who commit suicide

Forgive me if I don’t leave a suicide note

Go back to my words, my lines, my colours and my emptiness
if you don’t see the gradual landslide of hope
my gradual suicide!
by Santhosh Kumar Kanav