Little Poem #1


I had given Suffering, weary and drunk,

a place where it could rest its dead beat head.


“Once inside you may find a bed…

It is the one with sheets washed and pressed,

and pyjamas, neatly folded, resting

as peaceful as the dead.”


He smiled, not as clueless as he is toothless and said:

“Is it a dead man’s bed, where I shall rest by down-trodden head?”


I turned to him and said:

“Would you rather care to share my bed?”