An ode to my Grandma
I cannot begin to write about life
For it is short.
Summed up neatly in a few memories
Like a bundle of old newspaper
Stored aside for occasional reference.
You lived.
And it ends.
Like that.
Neither can I write about death
Death is too long.
Smoked in hazy absence.
Like the mouth of a river
Seared and forsaken by the desert sand.
You died.
And it begins.
Like that.
I think I shall bury you in my unconsciousness
Or my childhood.
You can bring me to mornings.
Or fan me with a hand made bamboo fan
on humid summer nights.
Like you used to.
And you will remain.
A mist my eyes dread to part with
A quietude
this sable night brings.
For it is short.
Summed up neatly in a few memories
Like a bundle of old newspaper
Stored aside for occasional reference.
You lived.
And it ends.
Like that.
Neither can I write about death
Death is too long.
Smoked in hazy absence.
Like the mouth of a river
Seared and forsaken by the desert sand.
You died.
And it begins.
Like that.
I think I shall bury you in my unconsciousness
Or my childhood.
You can bring me to mornings.
Or fan me with a hand made bamboo fan
on humid summer nights.
Like you used to.
And you will remain.
A mist my eyes dread to part with
A quietude
this sable night brings.
posted by Abhra at 1:49 AM
5 Comments:
It's beautiful. "You can bring me to mornings.
Or fan me with a hand made bamboo fan
on humid summer nights."... Shomoi ke pichiye niye jai.. I hope it serves as a wonderful reminder of days that were blissful and honest in their wholesome innocence.
Bhalo laaglo pore..
Arko
Like this one. Truly.
This comment has been removed by the author.
Haven't visit your blog for a long time....
as i came to peep in today I found myself treading on the good old memories of misty morning, with Her gaze following me as I crawled around in a futile attempt to kill a fly.
this one makes me miss her all the more.
beautiful...priceless..as always
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