The dust, lying down with its head tilted,
In the posture of prostration in front of the Lord,
With only the slab as its pillow,
Attempting to come in union with the constituent,
From which, it was created,
Crying with a silence quite louder,
To seek forgiveness for doing all
That should not be done.
As all of it was absolutely, strictly prohibited,
But the dust was flawed, imperfect.
When it was softened, molded,
It aspired to collect impurities to harden its form,
Not to unify with its origin but to deny its mortality,
It looked towards fire with some hope—
Beguiled by its enlightening manifestation,
Unaware about the cloaked darkness following light—
It attempted to took refuge in the arms of fire
Failed, failed, and failed! All its struggles were such a waste,
Which always alerted it about the lurking dangers,
But it remained in deep slumber like the lotus eaters,
Never rectifying its approach towards its being,
In the end, it reclined soulless, in the quest of mercy.