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When someone dies,
the eyes brim with tears.
If the lost one was known,
or dear,
then not just the eyes,
but the heart melts,
flames flickering wall to wall.
If the departed
wandered among people,
embraced them,
stirred their hearts,
then not only eyes and hearts,
but every atom of the body,
every drop of blood
rising from the heart,
weeps, thread by thread.
Alone in the dark,
mixing sorrow and memory
within the heart’s crucible,
they can never fully escape.
Whoever sings over
the lifeless, breathless body,
or carries it what does it matter?
The guns that fire into the air
whom do they honor?
Old photographs… poems…
songs… announcements…
they only testify
to the life that was,
the departed have gone
silently, forever.
Grief is man’s inner chamber,
and weeping, its outward display.
Image © Varala Anand |
