On the death of Democracy, 15 August 1990. Hand me that used wreath again,


I have another funeral to attend.





He wasn’t anyone close as such,


More an acquaintance than a friend.





Since 1947, we’d met occasionally,


Then lost touch for regimes on end.





Each time he’d fare worse than before


While seeming to be on the mend.





Attacks on his constitution though


Lowered his resistance until, weakened,





This year again his body politic


Succumbed, unable to contend.





How often must we bury Democracy?


How much time on mourning spend?





Can we afford repetitive funerals?


A death should be terminal, not a trend!





Practised in my grief by now,


Tearlessly, dry condolences I extend.





Hand me that used wreath again.


I have another funeral to attend.





[Unpublished.]