Death

Even our shroud will be lifted from our face, That day, the pieces of the heart will become soulless. Those who are unaware of the state of the heart, even their hearts will weep, Those because of whom the pieces of the heart will be made soulless, they too will weep. We will be remembered in every gathering, They will not be able to see us again. We will become a tale, a story. Those to whom these pieces seem soulless, they too will cry. It feels like that day is near, When we too will be wrapped in a shroud and carried upon shoulders. One day, we too will be buried, We will become a story, We will be buried.