The Mortal Frame

T. VASUDEVA REDDY

The beads of sweat that drain

the gloomy brow of the tiller,

The pearls of tears that flow from

the sunken eyes of the starving beggar,

The peals of lifeless laughter that echo

the dreadful shallow mind,

The weeds of rags and tatters that wrap

the hideous heap of blasting bones,

The heart-heaving aches and grisly pains that plague

the foul and filthy skin,

The wry and wrinkled skin that shroud

the dusty musty mortal frame,

The blades of dry grass that saw

the torpid tongues of famished cattle,

The parching petals of frosty flowers that feel

the fatal kiss with the dreadful dust,

In an abstruse way lead us to the bitter truth–

Life is a gruesome gutter full of stink and stench

With neither sunshine nor straw to grope to shore.