White

I will die with myself, my friend.
Silently into a strong breeze shall I pass
Without a single bit left of me
For any soul to mourn, for anyone to hold
Any grudge, any memory, any song
I, my friend, will pass away once and for all.
For I am Birth and in me lives Death,
Writing my stories with its fountain pen;
A fountain of emotions, along the circumference
Evaporating into colourless images, only
For the steady breeze to take them away, far away.
In a cotton country facing the red shore,
Black dots, like a child's painting, above the horizon
Cascading waves of enveloping hypermetropia
White would settle down, slowly on the canvas.