All our dead voices live in midnight graves;
When the owl hoots and foxes howl at moon
They come all at once in cascade of sound.
Our ears promptly catch them as a single strain
Of autumn leaves flying in the spring breeze.
It is not enough to die from this world and lie.
We have to talk about it , from grave, to sky.
The chorus of our speeches rises to the skies
At night as the wind rustles in the pipal leaves.
Sometimes we speak like the whoosh of feathers
Falling all at once from many flying birds of air
But we speak mostly to ourselves in our nights.
It is not enough to have lived but when we die
We have to talk about it from wher’ver we lie.
(Based upon conversation between Estragon and Vladimir in “Waiting for Godot” by Samuel Beckett)