He called last night;
Afraid, scared and frightened.
Told me he will give me flowers and that long promised gift.
I could sense something was amiss.
Calmed my breath, then rushed to say:
"What is it"
He said he may die soon.
He is scared, afraid and frightened.
"This maybe the last call"
"I wish I could write you a letter,
What if it reaches you late, and I am knocked out on death's steps"
"What is it! Please say, dear friend"
So he hiccupped, sniffed and cried lamenting the losses incurred in health, wealth and bosom friends.
He said he is afraid to death,
He said he is afraid of death.
So he called last night, probably for the last time.
I told him I will wait for him at dawn to feed the pigeons and fishes.
He affirmed adamant, he may die the next day.
I told him to wait.
I told him to have faith.
I told him to forgive death.
The next dawn we met,
And the next again.
In silence on the flaked bench he recalled that supposed last call.
Then, he took out bread from his pocket to feed the pigeons and fishes.