An Elegy written on a Spring Day in Quarantine

The old fridge is empty now, I observe

But the syrups and drops I must preserve.

The kitchen closet overflows with ration,

A wartime emergency warrants caution.

Hands feel dry, their knuckles and fingers itch.

All the oceans of Neptune’s a cheating ditch.

Out, damned spot! Fear won’t wipe its bloody stain

Beating the clout of the imagined pain.

Keep washing your hands, 20 seconds at least,

Lest the devil on your palm hold a fiery feast.

A sanitized world stares back from a window,

Hush! Softly speak, for I must be incognito.

Neighbors turn into ghostly absence,

Noisy elevator their only cadence

Of their guilty presence. Whispering footfalls.

Other times I see roaming antiseptic overalls.

It’s been a fortnight that a name and a number

Have surfaced with a deathly halo in my chamber

A nomenclature that makes not much tragic sense

But it’s vivid, livid, a crawling covid breaking defense

In an absurd world where symptom alone speaks

To masked medics looking like astronaut freaks.

My bed is my battlefield, blood leaks as sweet sticky sweat

But I must not go out, for I myself pose a violent threat.

The power! O the power in my breath, my saliva -

To annihilate the universe in a whiff like Shiva!

I will tell you this Covid guy is only 19 years old,

Yet look how he’s gotten the whole world on hold.

Where lungs are crying out aloud for help,

Where drugs induce a stupor-enabled yelp

Of listless living until ventilators run out of life,

Of a handful of isolated humans, who will survive

This attack as a measure to heal and regrow

And maybe all that was good will again flow.

It’s a pandemic, solemn news anchors on TV say

I hear my own gurgling laughter to my utter dismay.

Hunger is an epidemic that kills millions as well

Choosing its preys from the poor man’s cell.

Covid, such a good boy, doesn’t favor the poor alone,

He comes for the rich, makes them wail and groan.

But look, the fighting has stopped outside,

And no one asks what religion is your tribe.

When violence spreads like wildfire, you call it a riot,

Why not call it a ‘pandemic’ you pious moron, you fascist bigot?

You were born of this man-made epidemic of conformity,

Othering every ‘different’ face to classified deformity.

There’s time still to take that enzyme prescribed

The potion that quells greed, the syrup prepared

To kill your claim to superiority;

To immunize against feelings of legitimate authority.

Make haste, gulp it down in one long big swig,

And quietly go to sleep, before the cemetery is dig.

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Disclaimer: I have not tested positive for Corona but I have written this poem from the perspective of a patient.