Oh why should the spirit of mortal be proud,
like a sweet meteor,
a fast flying cloud,
a flash of lightening,
a break of wave,
he passes from life to rest in his grave.

The leaves of trees,
and the old willow shall fade,
we scattered around and together be laid,
and the young and the old,
shall mix with dust,
and together defy our mutiny.

The mother whom I attended and loved,
the mother who’s affection was proved,
the husband- the children- the relatives she blessed,
each and all are coming to see her rest.

The woman on whose cheek,
on who’s brow,
on who’s eye,
shone beauty and pleasure,
she triumphs as 22 years go by,
and memories of those who love her and praised,
are like of minds, which can never be erased.

I ask myself,
how many have felt his way,
cause I am only seventeen,
too ripe and raw,
to accept this principle of life,
my mother called me,
to share her sorrow and agony,
she said someone is critical,
am I confused or cynical,
is that what we call spiritual development?

The hands of god that has borne,
that chants of priest that has worn,
the eyes that help me see,
into the hearts of the brave,
can you explain me the sacred depth of grave?

The woman who sowed us and we rapt,
the woman who saw two generations,
the women who wandered to give up eternity,
is now fading away like the grass we tread.

As the doctor says,
so as she goes away,
like the flower or the weed,
those that wither away to let others succeed,
but she would remain in our hearts,
to repeat her tale,
that has often been untold.

We are the same that she has seen,
we want to see the same sights she has seen,
we felt the same grass and the sun,
and would one day run the same course,
that our forefathers did.

We loved- but the story cannot unfold,
we scorned- but her heart is cold,
we grieved- but more cause we thought she would cure,

When they die,
we things that are now,
walk on the turf that lies below,
and we wait for the abundant,
but still scarce grave and meet the things that lead us to pilgrimage road.

Hope and despondency-pleasure and pain,
are mingled together in sunshine and rain,
and the smile and the tear,
the song and the lyrics,
still follow each other like surge upon surge.

This wink of an eye,
this draught of death,
from blossom of health,
to paleness of death,
from waking up from a mothers womb,
to rest in peace in my grave.

Is this we call mortality,
then why should the spirit of mortal be proud?????

This is a poem dedicated to my late grandmother.
Please give me your feedback on the mail ID
I would be grateful to people who share my vision…
also open to criticism.