Mr. Death, you have unjustifiably stripped away my soul,
and I was left to dree your hatred.
You buried me beneath sludge and notorious boulders,
and again, the surge of the flood washed me away.

I lost my soul; my flesh was eaten by mud,
and the water threw my skull onto the riverbank,
where a dog licked my skull.
But that dog did not know which nationality I was.
Its instinct told it only that there was food.

Yet across the ocean, people are commenting on their governments,
saying the people who were killed in Nepal were not of this nationality or that nationality.
The skin of people is determined by their nationality,
but not by where they were born or where they acquired citizenship.

I shut down my social media feed,
with a heavy pull of tears inundating my nose.

Death does not care what colour you have,
nor would the dog on the riverbank cherry-pick the skulls based on inferior or superior nationality. 
or be able to see their nationality.
It simply needs food—and devours it. 

Greedy Death did not even  give me an opportunity to be shrouded with  cerement 
nor did it allow me to take a rest inside a casket.