Cure

My bed lay vacant.

For four days

I had sat, rested and slept on it.

The signs of my occupation,

Were still visible,

The pillow, with its deep depression,

The bed-sheet, oddly wrinkled,

The blanket, carelessly folded;

The towel-wrapped medicine pouch,

And my spare clothes on the side table.

I had come alone to get rid of my pain.

In the early hours today, I died,

No one has claimed my body.

Does it matter now?

What matters is,

I will no longer suffer any pain.