A scorpion in a crab’s garb!
Has stung into my body cells;
Poisoning my joy’s inner orb,
Has dug into me deep death wells…
Bitter emptiness in me shrouds,
Like dull eclipses in the Space;
Have heaven’s galaxy’s star crowds,
Dared dim the light of Divine grace?
I will not ask you, Lord, why me?
I’ve received your blessings many;
When I receive good things for free,
This pain is nothing worth any!
The scorpion has stung me sharp,
Creating in me lumps of pain;
My life, now, is a stringless harp,
Playing as though purely in vain…
Radiation, all and sundry;
I’m like skin in a turnery…
The scorpion is still hungry!
Pain is cancer within cancer,
It springs up from any corner…
Like an expert ballet dancer,
It is the mourned and the mourner…
Headache, tremor, and nausea,
Dead dearth in any smell and taste;
Although losing the cornea
My vision still clings to be chaste…
Unable to eat what I want,
I consider everything waste;
Realizing the true love bond,
It’s not food. I love the love’s taste.
Hands heavy; legs swollen and weak,
All hair emptied; eyebrows have gone;
Mental agony at its peak,
Every bit of beauty gone worn…
Tablets for everything: for hair,
For eye-brows; for a better look;
For the very breathing the air,
For making me read a good book…
Cancer is scorpion severe,
Yet, it is not my death sentence;
In life’s purification sphere,
Cancer might be part of penance…