Inside the dark, dinghy
room of the thatched house
with mud walls
the skeletal frame
is lying on a ragged mat
on the floor
struggling hard to
breath, writhes in gnawing pain
coughing out sputum
and phlegm in a
clay-pot kept beside
his head.
The stench of death
pervades the surroundings
the bird of life
flutters impatiently inside the
frame for an early escape
all a matter of hours
or minutes.
He with nobody beside him
fights for his life single-handedly
knowing in his heart of
hearts that an orphan
is always an orphan
caught in the web of death.
The spider of death
could approach him any
time soon.
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