I cannot find the tombstone for you
I can tell you where to look for it.

Macabre died at the age of 90.
And the tomb of macabre lies where he was born.
At least that’s what people speculate.
He was fond of yellow marigolds.
“ Strew them all over my cold, dead body”
His dying wish was never fulfilled.
Take some along with you if you can.


Macabre was born an epileptic
His limbs were fragile and brittle
He liked painting landscapes
“ My sky is purple and My hills are pink”
His drunken gibberish.
Paint a little hut on his rugged breast..
Fill it with walnut brown colours…


His tombstone bears great secrets
Perhaps all the secrets known, unknown
Stolen mangoes, hidden treasure boxes smuggled letters, and secret lovers.
He kept them and died with them.
Who knows, Maybe you too will find whatever it is that you look for.

If you do find the tombstone…
And there you spot an envelope with my name written on it.
Don’t read it, I beg you, don’t open and read.
It’s a letter that I wrote to you.
The kinds which we write but never mean to send.
Macabre’s tomb guards it with great concealment.

And god knows what is scribbled in it. What doom shall beget if the contents are ever read…
“Dear, sweets
I harboured a little crush on you, and kept it for quite some time.
But that night as you slipped into my room with my roommate friend
Meekly requesting me for privacy…
A tiny chunk of my heart broke off…
And I have never loved you ever since…”