The Dying
“What was that saying?” he mulled.
“Oh yes! The idle Hindu weighs his genitals.”
Conceding silence to the dying man,
All faces drooped like three-day-old festoons.
“We shall visit London soon!
Don’t you think? Brother, don’t you like this plan?
I have to thank my doctor there
And see once more Trafalgar Square.”
The brother mused in silence…
“How can’t you know there is a tumor
Gone berserk in your head?
That rot has ravaged half your brains
And left your left limbs limp like lead.
You shall die here in this village,
Forgotten in a sepulcher of dung-splattered plains,
And pay your home eternal homage.”
His face turned almost black with dread
Of almost having wished his brother dead.
(He may have suffered from what trained
Psychiatrists like to call obsessions.)
Meanwhile was made one more concession
As to the dying the rest just smiled and said,
“Why not? As soon as you can walk again.”
