Skip to main content

The Pallbearer


I happen to know a common pallbearer
Who mourns all deaths around him;
His eyes have the wisdom you’d expect
But the light in them is quite dim.

 He carries corpses; he carries them everyday,
And never does he ask for the name of the dead.
‘Cause someday it will be someone he knows
And the name shall never escape his head.

Said he once, ‘Today I carried a little girl’
‘Seven she was, I heard them say…
My daughter would be seven by now, yes,
Had it not been such a bad day.’

He still believes the little girl heard
His whisper, in her box so small;
‘Sleep well little girl, whoever you are,
For this sleep eventually comes to us all.’

‘Had you lived a little more, child,
You would have known how the world looks.
But don’t be sad, for it’s not as beautiful
As they lie in your colourful books.’

The pallbearer sees an obscure face,
The face of his daughter behind a veil,
And a smile; The smile that pulls out tears;
And the smile that also helps him heal.

He is tired now; He’s tired of carrying
Bodies that are supposed to be light;
But heavy are the dead dreams and hopes,
Which he struggled to carry with all his might.

And what he fears more than death
Is that one day, it will be someone he knows.
‘Not a child, but someone old’, he prays
‘Someone who has seen all highs and lows.’

‘Someone who has lived his part of stay.
‘Cause in their deaths, the pain is always mild;
‘And I shall be their pallbearer, but
My shoulders are too weak to carry another child.’

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A Dream

I live and breathe like a misplaced dream In this labyrinthine construct of time; Like a flower that blooms in the wrong garden; Like a kite that soars in the wrong sky. I try to find my place in this maze; Where the horizon is a cerulean haze; Where children are taught how to lie; Where a flightless swallow dreams to fly; Where tears burn the eyes like a pyre; Where simplicity gets butchered by satire; Where justice is just like a starless night; Where compassion is always a lost fight; Where deaths can kindle an endless debate; Where love is defeated by war and hate; Where colours of humans put seasons to shame; Where despair is the prize for the agonizing game. I watch, I cry, and I wish to be born In the distant future; For one day there’ll be A world that cares, a world that dreams; And I will find the right sky for my kite.
2 comments
Read more

The Exoneration of Heidi Schäfer

In the shadows of a dead city she stood And waited for the sun to go down. Heidi had been a daughter, a wife, a mother, But never Heidi. She watched the remnants of a long forgotten song Lancing towards her from the medallion above And her heart looked for the listener; The one who had listened to all her prayers. "Now that my road has come to its end, Show me where I can wash these stains Off my broken skin," Heidi whispered When she found the listener, Playing his flute under an ageless tree. "You've come a long way, Heidi," he said, "You were too cautious not to fall, Which made you forget that you could fly." Heidi watched the hills falling in love with The abstrusity in the melodies he wove And said, "The hills look like a dream." "Yes, but a dream you chose to bury, Under the weight of your sins," he said. "You have been all, Heidi - You have been a seed, a plant and a tree But you never danced wit...
2 comments
Read more

The Riddle

Says the poet, “O divine little sunflower, You make my pen and my heart stop. There are no limits known, the enigma Of your surreal beauty cannot reach.” It is a fear that lingers in the rhythm; A fear of letting her watch his naked heart. It’s his love the poet shall never speak of. “What if she refuses to bloom?” Fear has myriad shades, but this shade Was no stranger; “We share a bond,” He says, “And for her I’m just the man Who waters her and watches her bloom. I am nothing more. I am nothing less. But does she know her place In every dream I have? Has anybody else Watered her the way I do? Has anybody else feared To not wake up to her effulgence? Maybe she knows,” thinks the poet, And he asks the Sun, who knows all, “Does she tell you about me?”  When the Sun goes down, the poet watches His little flower, still dispelling all the gloom, And his heart yearns to believe, “She knows.” A poetised riddle is what they share, and he Accepts, a poet in love i...
Post a Comment
Read more