My job is to go and receive,
Souls that are destined to leave.
The old, the young, sometimes kids I see.
Guide them across and set them free.
“It's not my time,” some like to say.
I know it hurts but it's nature's way.
I watch from afar as they cross and heal.
Afraid to touch them, afraid to feel.
It is grim for them and even tougher for me.
I find it hard to be strong, but I have to be.
I once reached a lake on a pitch black night.
Across from it, I saw a shining light.
I crossed the lake and reached the hut.
I tried to enter but the door was shut.
If no one's home, why am I here?
I called out, “Where are you dear?”
“Who are you?” It was a heart breaking sound.
I followed it, I walked around.
I met a boy, he looked like a wreck.
The rope from the tree wrapped around his neck.
Why him? He looked so young.
What had he done to have been hung?
“It's time to leave. Let’s go from here.”
He looked scared. “There is nothing to fear.”
“All I wanted was a night of peace,”
He weeped, “Just leave. Can you please?”
“I am here to help. I will set you free.”
“Just walk towards me at the count of three?”
He frowned, “Is this real? Am I dead?”
“Or are you just another illusion in my head?”
So that is why he did it. The built up frustration.
Haunted by the fragments of his own imagination.
Oh! The little boy had to suffer.
The going must have gotten tougher.
“All is real that you can see.
Come with me and I’ll set you free.”
I felt that he was hesitant to trust.
But taking him with me was a must.
So I held his hand through the mist.
Just to prove to him that I exist.
His hands were freezing, as cold as snow.
But even after we crossed, I still didn't let go.
I still feel frightened and cold and grim,
Every single time that I think of him.

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