Through the Orifice

They say,
Like the great Takshyak,
Death sneaks in,

Through that insatiable orifice called mouth,
With dead beasts and dead plants,
And liquids hot and cold, clear and murky.

They say,
Death grows in the belly,
Slowly, in its own pace,
And crawls to the cells, tissues, veins, bones,
And to the heart and brain, finally,
Before the worship is over!