Whirling Death

I am maddened by the Death-knock. In a frenzy I run, for the many chores to be done... From the stillness of mountains and lakes to hear ancient songs, to unravel mysteries of tales from the past, of trees to enquire after the business of growth, to watch the ever-changing shapes of clouds, through sweet-voiced, goodly birds seek the source of divine fruits, touch flowers of a blushing creeper, make conversation with doorways and walls. So many visitors still wait; a long list of unseen vistas beheld in the eyes, pounds in the veins, exploding them any moment, but I am busy, in a flurry to carry out the chores... The ocean calls, islands and coastlines for aeons have longed for me. They haunt me, the fishermen singing songs as they return to their abodes; some day I'll pay them a visit... Enchanting lands restively wait to reveal their many treasures; paths are not unknown to me, in the old wooden trunk, lie safe the maps; I can also discern the melody of gods, but I am busy... So much to be done for the children. Books and notebooks, school uniforms, new bags, toys, bats and rackets and so much more that is yet unsaid, will make them happy if I buy for them, but I am busy, have to see through so many chores... Faster now, blood rushes through the veins; life is possessed by the frenzy of Death. Busy I am, hurriedly scribbling poem after poem, maddened by the Death-knock.