The narrator

The narrator

When the stage is done, 
Players will come and leave 
One by one. 
  
In a thick and turbulent weather, 
The move, not to be together; 
Voices coarse and terse 
As if to rehearse a hearse, 
Beings aligned like pillars, 
Rigid and firm; the strong weaklings 
An inch of space is more than a hole in the needle, 
Drowned in meek feelings 
Not to be placed, there are no fillers. 
  
The wicked stage is undressed. 
Has transformed the King once bathing 
In the stream of bloods. 
  
Years later. The hollow stage re-appears. 
Germs emerged. 
Thousands and millions of bodies burnt. 
Smell though wasn’t coming from hell 
Players unable to sit in the garden. 
Much later, the place broke the walls 
Memories of pain now washed. 
  
Coarse voices without remorse 
Their tongues re-appeared in some other place. 
Need lives. Some more. 
Suddenly, the narrator says, 
‘Let me be that life, that countless life 
To flow into death to loosen 
And relax the space.. as I did before’, and goes 
Backstage. The voice echoes… 
The stage didn’t show but 
Is now a dais of peace. 
  
The stage undone 
Players come and leave 
One by one.