It was all faintly lit gloom
where her silhouette wouldn't betray
if she was sleeping or awake
amid the thick smell of disinfectant
the world debarred from the room.
I trust not one of you, she would say,
moving germs, a tribe of dirt,
that's what all of you are.
Countless times she would dress and undress
drenching herself with dettol
changed linen time and again
and her only pursuit of happiness
was denying even the closest an access
to evade disease only she knew.
Others would find in her
a diseased mind.
When she died
men were hired to burn her
and the celsius ensured
she had a germ free passage
to the next world.