New York, March to May
Nothing pierces the deafening silence
But ambulance sirens.
Once the paradise people rushed to,
Now the city nurtures the disease
That has sent tremors across this planet.
The Grim Reaper has his hands full.
There are too many souls to claim.
Memories of Manhattan and the subway
Grow pale in my mind, as I wait out
The terrible months in a tiny attic,
Waiting for the nightmare to end.
Every afternoon, I find solace
In church bells. When they stop ringing,
The sirens return.
Dhaka, May 2020 to Present
Back home, nobody nears
The places I dream of every night.
My phone brings me news
Of those I love
From the other side of the world.
The Grim Reaper travels faster than light.
He looks the weeping city in the eye.
The ever-enduring Dhaka looks on
As bodies pile up in the hospitals
And my loved ones lock themselves away
From the sprawling metropolis.
Death floats over my favourite city.
What once seemed monstrous
Has now been brought to its knees.