Every book has a last page, every song a last verse to sing.
Every sentence its full stop, every beginning its ending.
Every existence will one day cease to be,
In the inevitability of death, there is unity.

'Death is simply a beginning,' confidently some state.
'In death, there is nothingness,' others iterate.
But the lock of death in the living world has no key.
In the ignorance of death, there is unity.

In the hearts of some resides unwavering misery.
Others march on, donning costumes of pseudo-normalcy.
The actuality of their loss, still others refuse to see.
In the incoherence of death, there is unity.

Cinema, literature, poetry have ostensibly tried to explain,
With the knowledge directors, littérateurs, poets feign.
No living soul can grasp its intense incongruity,
In the incomprehensibility of  death, there is unity