Here lies a king,
buried with his gold,
fading to dust,
in his marble tomb cold;

Here lies his queen,
with jewels of the stars,
their luster now failing,
to mask the dead woman’s scars;

Here lies the prince,
with a golden spoon born,
buried with his pride,
alone in the storm;

Here lies the princess,
married into wealth,
wasting away in death,
as she did in life, the trophy wife;

Here lies a saint,
enlightened old man,
alone in the ashes,
withered into sand;

Here lies a sinner,
murderer of men,
mutilator of lives,
decaying in his den;

The lives they lived,
their separate varied births,
at the end of their times,
led but into dirt;

In a million specks of dust,
we wither into grain,
the same fate for all,
to wash away in the rain.

By: Viraj Belgaonkar


Pen it... or aaa type it. u know what i mean.

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