Wednesday, February 20, 2013

The song of Anjaan of death

On the Steps ... of life 
I seem to remember some things 
of the past ...of the present and 
of the future....

My eyes are red...
just as were ..of the man 
in front of I watch...
a swarm of flies

Look around ... its the place of dead
I say.. you've arrived..
dog brothers play with the child
and the boy does a somersault
for a dime...
the dead sleeps

the river flows...a mile away
and then it takes along with her
ashes....but memories stay
of the priest in warm cloths
of the many dead in queue
of the shaven heads
beaten breasts... the pyre 
 and ..longing lives 
back home

but then they speak of the dead
his life .. his deeds...
some say he was sane... some wise 
and some are in silence ...
grief is rare...pity the  life
and its play

the dead is deaf and the dead is indeed blind
The dead is numb and the dead is cold
how does it then matter...if the flowers are 
jasmine......or.. .marigold.

what a shame... 
life is death..
wretched air....
carries all the soot 

and so she sobs for all things lost
under the veil
I cant see well
but am sure of her heart
and her eyes .... red
in tears...she beholds
a future unseen

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