The lockdown butterfly is dead,
the queen of mystery and mysticism is dead,
the symbol of transformation is dead,
the winged messenger of hope is dead.Residue of beauty, lies on the cobblestone,
the resplendent costume of vibrant colours,
no cremation nor burial shall fulfill,
as a stoic dormancy in an old book will.Brimming graveyards of the departed,
nameless, soulless, homeless, lifeless
restless corpses in crematorium queue,
the holy Ganges embraced them too.A juxtaposition of people in frames,
children, adults, the elderly as well,
slipping into a premature slumber,
becoming an index, just a number.Caressing the wings of the butterfly,
and gently placing it on my pillow,
stillness blending with darkness of light
the dawn back home ushers in my night.Now sleep summons me to a nightmare,
while morning brings me the inevitability,
where some are strangers, some our own,
those names and faces, known unknown.The dead butterfly rests peacefully in a book,
while time crawls across each lockdown day,
and drowning my lament in infusion of teas,
I start reading the obituaries.
© Jheelaf Parimu Razdan
