The Last Letter

By Deepali Singla

Death: A five-letter word soared

toward me

the moment she told me to

write a letter to my coffin.

My corpse appeared in my thoughts,

lying beside a black crow.

The well brimmed with water,

but the crow seemed to

have lost its thirsty limb.

Goodbyes carried me on their shoulders,

leaving me in the grave,

and I was no longer writing letters

to my heart about being brave.

That moment, I realized

calling death on lonely nights was easy,

writing a goodbye note for tomorrowwas easier,

but when death comes unannounced—

like one fine night,

when life sheds all its pounds—

a nightmare it is to witness

its enormous claws creeping toward you:

thump, thump, thump.

And when it was just a heartbeat away,

I wanted to live.

I yearned to be born again—

perhaps a butterfly with transformed wings.

I wanted to be the spring in an unexplored box,

to walk, walk, and walk,

even after countless falls.

Going back to where I belonged,

the earth opened its motherly arms,

the soil, kissing my eternal essence,

sang a haunting welcome song.

At the doorstep,

I waited for another call,

like someone yearning for a better hotel

to stow her luggage

and her all.

Maybe I could linger a little longer.

Maybe death could send me a message

before it finally opened its door.

Maybe I could write for one last time,

Maybe for once I could kiss his forehead

and whisper that he will always be mine.

So many “maybes” surrounded me,

like a crowd watching the play of their own dreams.

The sun finally set,

the moon went down.

It was time for another crown,

to embrace another dawn,

to lend my words

to a world of no place and no time.

By Deepali Singla