Empty Shroud

Once my parents both
bought a big fine cloth,
beautiful and all white
so soft and silky bright,
A sudden contention arose
which never for a while even froze,
“When I die, under me please spread,
It will make all extol my bed”
Mom against dad, gabbled very loud
” No my son use it only for my shroud”
Next day on Sunday
I saw them for the last,
In Church they were worshiping
Had a great blast,
I reached the place
with grievous heart,
with blood everywhere
at the spot,
I cried and searched
my parent’s voice,
but no sound of their
 just pain and noise,
I went to all hurt
who seemed to survive,
to search for my parents
who might weren’t alive,
At last all dead were
taken one by one,
to bury them in land of
silence and barren,
I ran, if I could find some
remains of their,
but all were torn to pieces
of flesh in the air,
I cried for, In the same shroud
If I could wrap,
A finger with ring of my mother
Or my father’s cap.

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