Saturday, November 22, 2014

Father is the son

Death leaves a void no words can fill.

When my dear ones lose, I lose too.
And when they are lost, I am lost.
And the pain! It is staggeringly immense.
Every nerve swells and breaks,
Every cell explodes,
And the heart splatters blood into hair and nails.


He is gone!
After a year, I still bleed.
All that blood cannot fill that void he left.
I realize that the father is the son.
And when a man dies, he lives till his son dies.



Leftovers

They remained.
No one called their names.
No one took them.
They remained. They had to.

They sat oozing death from their eyes.
Through smoking dreams emerged sadness,
Like from a lonely sad chimney.
No place to go. They remained. They had to.

Memory was a curse there
A happy memory always slipped
And hunger, pain lurked fearless
Like vultures waiting for life to flee.


Some thought: of their kids-
Swollen with lust for food;
Of life- lusting with swelling fears.
So they remained. They had to.

Beyond them lay fields dusty.
For no one had a hope to plant!
And when a breeze strayed there,
Desperate dust settled on dry, smacking lips.

So they remained for the end to approach.
A feast for the waiting vulture.
All they had to do was to wait. Just to wait.
So they remained. They had to!