The Deceased

The rustling leaves on sorrow’s road,
Unhang the wind chimes and let,
Huge gushes of air blow unhindered,
The ever present child at the playground is today’s absentee,

I pluck a string and it snaps,
I thread the path on which beggar’s nap,
I take a sip at a nearby pond,
Not very far from a place that once was fun,

The large windows of a dwelling at the very end of the road,
Are like wretched eyes that stared from the very beginning,
Whence its wood was pleasant and satisfactory,
Until the termites stepped in and caused it to rot,

Energy, what use is it to a dying man?
But a curse to prolong his suffering,
Therefore, to end it all he commits that which God didst allowed us to ordain,
That is to take his life with his own bare hands,

He will always be remembered as a hero nay,
A dubious coward and fraud aye,
Fearing pain that which is only but a feeling,
A tiny fragment in his ocean vast mind,

Dim the lights and silence the chirping,
Of birds with a loaded shotgun,
Vacate the road from the house thereon,
Let the Grim Reaper ferry the body to where it should lie inhumed,

I recite a prayer in front of a gathering crowd,
That circle around the buried corpse,
My voice emanates in a divine manner,
I feel like Orpheus the Macian musician and poet,

The prayer moves those who break into a mourn,
I lament after a bloodline that’s lost,
Into obscurity, that resembled mine,
But not that of my mother’s.

This poem was written by Sunil Rao.
Please do not use them without permission I plead.