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 don’t 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
Written on Strong Cognition
