The Pyre
The Pyre
I see less number of people when a poor dies,
And even though I don't know who that is,
I still assume he was breathing yesterday,
However cliche it sounds, he was available for someone
Because he is not today, death on the hindsight is like a board exams
We all prepare for it unknowingly, and when it finally happens we stare at it blankly and go beyond
And the long wait after that is tasteless I suppose
A prolong time perhaps
I wonder what happens to the friends who attends the funeral,
Do they erase the number, forget the address
Or spread the news in the family
What happens to the memory of the dead
Does it becomes topsoil
Or the picture in the hall speaks to the lonely
Anytime they get your name on the tip of their tongue they bite it off
Or a woman cries discreetly when she touches the edges of the bed
When we die, we live long before we prepare to die.