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.