Poetry

Your hands tremble,
when you accept―
the cup of hemlock.
 
Not like Socrates,
who described the ascending bane
paralyzingly.
 
Art of letting it go―
was inherent. Exogamy.
The root population grows.
 
I have come to take
your hand, O death,
out of caste.
 
You tell me,
it was out of turn,
to stitch the black wound.
 
The howling was persistent―
Moon was not yet sighted.