An old father grieving by the pyre of his son,
Many a thing he enjoyed when he was a child,
Remembering taking his son to woods and field,
To ecstasy the melodious singing of cuckoo one.
Recalling hymns from a temple and priest forlorn,
A torrent, a howl of a jackal, a honeybee song, mild;
A lass milking a cow and she will dream and wild,
For the sweetness and joy of life, now lost and gone.
He will recall how he took him to his school,
How he waited for hours for the train to a new start,
And by his hard work took to new height and tool,
As none but he could take onward in world harsh,
Against all odds. Dreaming so of life good and marsh
While the pyre crackles, he will be at the divine cart.
Views expressed above are the author’s own.
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