On reaching the last page
of my dream journal,
I feel as if my dreams
are going to end.
I dreamt just to
write them in my journal.
In the pages  I cut
their  wings and implanted
costly ones, with bright colours.
I was always deaf
before the cry of my pity fly,
my dreams.
Always they cried, loud,
for their colourless wings.
For the sake of making them marvellous,
in public,
with the pleasure of being a ruler,
in private,
I would ask them to fly
to the peaks I point, and they did.
Now, on reaching its last page
I realize, my friend,
this journal is nothing but a garbage pit
with a heap of decayed colourless wings.
This last page has become unbearable
with its rising foul smell.

Dig deep, as if it is an ocean
The depth must challenge
the Mariana trench.

Never put perfumes on the body,
rather invite infinite bacterium
to accelerate the decaying.

Never lay the body with care
throw it to the depth, a proclamation of freedom.

Don’t cry for the dead
don’t smile as if he escaped
from the world of misery.
Stay silent, let him realize
at least, in his last moment
the beauty of silence.

You must not fill the pit,
don’t invest  your energy there
the dead will no longer pay you interest.
Let nature hide her wounds,
and if she doesn’t, beware
to unhide is always a revolution.

Don’t offer flowers.
Never do the fragrance
of thousands of roses surpass
the foul smell of the carcass.
It should rise,
it has to itch other’s noses,
and let it be the way
of nature’s reminding.
Is it necessary, that always
reminding shall smell sweet?

Remember, all these are true
only for those who died in the dust
For the ones who are buried in memories,
it's simply absurd.
Memories are the battlefields where
death had a miserable failure,
a failure repeating ruthlessly
since the dawn of human emotions.