Men and women old and young,
have just arrived quite grave
seem to have understood life and death,
most of them wrapped in saffron or white.
Close of the dead, pitcher in hand,
handled carefully.

Men and women young and old,
children big and small valid or invalid,
sharp gaze yet tired bodies
have never left the place.
Hardly bothered about life and death.
They assume themselves the sons and daughters of the holy river.

Men and women young and old
neither sad nor happy, sell my God!
Materials for dead for livelihood
things for peace and progress.
Maintain their market for life and death
their goods are never in or out of fashion.

We amongst one of the devout batches,
a brother and his family, a son outside the country that reaches
for salvation and devoir, on earth’s homeless house
breaths of oxygenless air and life that browse.

A young boy with designer’s pitcher from a far away country
young mother’s transformation, the fuls they call,
for emptying to the ultimate bed that confirms
meeting with her favorites god and goddesses.

Heads lowered brother in saffron enchanted mantras
for his only beloved sister’s solace, unflickered pain
life instant by instant moved in mind again and again
emptied the tears started running as if to accompany.

The sacred river accepted soon.
The eyeless gaze caught nothingness
the groundless floor and the deathless feet
to gain the strength and courage.

My insatiate soul would drain
the friendliest aunt — the utmost earth’s bitter pain.