You are finally all in the grave alone,
Maggots are mating or masturbating on your bones.
Your rotting flesh make good banquet for ants,
You funeral coffin a feast for termites on a silver plate.
Your skin is itching, heart with pain panting
You desire to scratch, to sigh but can’t.
You are numb; you are drowning in a sorrowful death lake.
The narrow pit stinking with the decomposing corpse
Day by day you are suffocating from the pungent stench.
You want to sleep but are too tired eyes to close.
Month by month with the living are your loosing touch.
Year by year weeds are overgrowing your grave;
Except for Hyenas digging after your bones
Except for dogs which relieve them selves upon your epitaph stone
No soul any longer bothers with your forgotten grave.