Aniruddhan Vasudevan
Totentanze
Death dances
like a wind-battered polythene bag
flying falling tearing
over thorny side-growth. But
it is kept grounded
by the red white tubes that go in
and out,
carrying this and that, lying
over hospital sheets, looking
almost beautiful.
Unsteady beeps,
like from a flighty metronome,
keep the rhythm.
And it is usually to a song on someone
who has lived. However.
The Chorus is a shift-changing group
Of pure white nurses.