Whose underwear has

holes

at the backside

 

is the one

who has lived life

to the fullest

 

by imbibing

the true meaning, by default,

of  abstinence

 

from all worldly desires,

cares and concerns                                                                             

that grind and belittle and cage

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

the true renunciator

on his way to

universal acclaim reverberating

 

through the barren desert,

the dark ocean floor, and the silence

of  a graveyard

 

by attaining the highest state

imaginable

for anyone so humble

 

by no choice

afforded

by his means-

 

a death

on the cold, broken, overcrowded

government hospital floor

 

to be celebrated

and lionized

with undecipherable eulogies

 

by buzzing flies

enforcing

a no-fly zone                                                             

 

over their fallen

benefactor,

whose unkempt shack

 

by the overflowing municipal

drain and dump

had wholeheartedly ever

 

welcomed and hosted

their continents

since time immemorial.