Carefree of discomfort

The nonagenarian, pale and lean
shrunk like a lettuce on the iron cot,
She monopolises it for three years,
Coma enters into her thin frail
for twenty days nearly,
her grandson’s ping pong ball,

not sound enough to reach
her almost deaf ears,
the white bed pan
that has served many
before looks askance
at the surroundings.

She has greened three
Generations , nourished
to their growth and prosperity,
all surrounding with eyes
wide open to view her
slowly closing eyes,

can she feel those fluttering
flowery curtains? the metaphor
of breeze wavy through her
grilled windows? those
chattering birds or loud
acoustics of politicians?

In the dead of her life,
Life is still for her.