Of times we came to believe
that death lays its icy hands
On kings and even on angels
and known are angels
dying suddenly and silently
and unknown are the bubbles
they pop up when the pressure intrudes
and there are jasmines and roses
with throngs and stings
still they all die and perish
the vicious thing is feeling
and death is a feeling
real be they on screen
unreal in lives they have been
who knows how the life lasts
And a lonely sage or seer tastes
and makes ready his wreath
later to stun those all who breath
cinemaa or draama ends
always adrift and abrupt
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