I scribble an imagination of death,
It captures my spirit and I fear the vile termination,
Before my internal gaze,
I picture, in the black and white screen, the image of Virginia Woolf and another- a man,
Am terrified and scared.
The dark vault of their horizon,
The patches of mounds I vision,
The lightning, the thunder and the feeble precipitation,
Most dreadful the spade in her soiled hands,
(Digging a grave, perhaps preparing)
Summoning me to join them.
I refuse and betray…
23rd November, 2006
