Once Upon A Time There Was A Man Named Bhetki

But I know for sure Bhetki cannot die.
My drunken poet friend
Whom poetry and liquor carried through
in these times of chaotic red stains of betel leaves
ever dripping from his perched lips.

He stopped writing poetry.
He stopped asking for a woman’s love.
He just said it is necessary to die now,
slanting his head on one side,
in the same way he use to say – come lets have some local hooch.

But I know for sure he is not dead.
He will come someday and we will do the last dance.