It is an hour of pandemic. I am thinking about mankind. When sleeping in the night, I hear knocking just at right. A figure comes and it says Come poet your time finishes. I rub my eyes, stretch my look. He is death and I take my book. Holding scythe he wears black dress. I see his eyes and they gaze. "Listen my poems," I tell. He says,"where your fear dwells?" I say then "Let's play chess." Death smiles and against me sits. We play, play and play. I donβt know how goes day. Suddenly once I see my hands. It is bone and nothing belongs. I try to find my eyes, But they are gone. Death smiles and says, "I always rip in time." Then I say pointing my books, "Look my poems are alive." PB 30/04/2020