No morrow; the seizures of veins
vanish in the pale underbelly of sunset;
Cauvery glistens in dawn’s radiance
its springs bristle with saga of hate;
On its banks sprang myriad cultures
growing from dawn to dark noon;
Cultures unable to outlive sutures
of evolution, ossified in a cocoon;
With springs stained, monsoon astray
the bed bares only lines of query;
Who’s the winner at the end of the day?
Are there voices faint in the cemetery?
Has the journey ended in no-hope-land,
ashes infertile in gnarled sand?

* Cauvery, a sacred and ancient river in South India.
This is where rites of cremation are performed.
The custom dates back to many centuries.
The ashes of my father, who passed away recently,
were immersed in the river.