I will mourn when you have buried them.
Meanwhile, don't expect me to lament

over paper tombstones of exponential
statistics, over deaths that might occur.
I will die, once. COVID 19
could be the cause, or its cousin
viral pneumonia, or simply old age.
At this vulnerable stage of my life,
I do what I have done for years.
I give my best, expect the worst.

 
Dead days settle in my grave,
familiar companions waiting patient

for that reunion when all is past.
The future? Nightless, lightless eternity.

If I am to be felled, let it be
by a nobler adversary than a virus,
this enemy I cannot see.
Death would come, and after a struggle,

I would succumb with dignity.

I have a fortnight's grace,
fifteen days to take my place
in the queue for the ICU.

I have already arranged my grave,
selected the prayers I want read.
The gardener knows which flowers I like.
My son will twist, position my head
to face the Ka'aba. Unprepared for life,
I am better prepared to be dead.
Ironically, securing a last resting place
has been easier than booking a hospital bed.

22.3.20