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AT THE FUNERAL OF MY FAMILY




Now they've parted.
From me and my world.
To an extreme distant land,
To a far more secure land,
A land with no dawn or dusk.

Meek and desolate I stood,
Savoring the misery of being alone.
The balmy words never reached me,
For I tried to pacify me
With sorely unsound reasons.

I saw people around me,
Striving to construct a grin for me.
They do that all the time.
Even I would've done that
If I were them.

Their lips with a tapering smile
And hands holding tight on my shoulders,
Spoke what they were about say.
But I never could fathom,
What they really wanted to say.

I was staring at those bodies.
They say that it is my family.
I didn't get the truth of it,
Because I do see their congruence,
But I don't see their gusto.

The priest was mumbling prayers.
The ' guests ' were weighing tears.
Others were lecturing on trancience.
But soon  I forgot everyone,
Since I was busy trying not to cry.

But a few tears did come out,
When I kissed the last kisses.
Not because those were the last kisses,
But because I couldn't remember
The last time I kissed them.

I watched as the boxes went down.
Like a selfish, aging king.
Presiding the burial of his treasures.
And like this impotent king,
I do feel poor, without the buried treasure.

The portal was closed tight.
And when it opens next,
It is I who should go in the box.
They say that only God knows when.
I guess that's why we call him God.

I saw the sky's azure turning dark.
I heard sporadic untuned drums,
Tailed on a parade of white light.
When all ran to find a roof,
The tonnage of grief tied me on the spot.

I felt being washed away.
I felt being cleansed.
The warmth of the cool droplets
Said what others failed to say.
That I really should wake up.

But wasn't I awake ?
Didn't I feel all the pain ?
Weren't those real tears ?
Aren't they my family ?
Or am I in a dream ?

So I'm in a dream.
A dream of perpetual bitterness.
And of unstable happiness.
A dream called life,
Which they say that I'll outlive.

They say that all life has a purpose.
I thought mine was my family.
I arrived at it stamping out many.
And now that it is stamped out,
I see that all they say must be stamped out.
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Comments

  1. ശ്രമകാരി February 27, 2016 8:20 pm

    Sometimes a poet thinks of things no one dares to think. It is not courage, but mere accident. His mind roams seamlessly. I think that is a curse...

    ReplyDelete

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