Epitaph On A Matriach

Rested in peace, the crowd is restive
Draped in archaic calligraphy, the wake is awakened
By the reverie of murmured voices, rising, native
Dialects garrulous; Heightened
By the expectant expectation
Of the prostrate procession

Engulfed by the acrid taste of incense
Litres of cordial flow, nuts consumed
Nothing could assuage all that is tense,
Cold or unrequited except light-hearted banter, subsumed
Under tradition. A geriatric bunch, perhaps I am too harsh,
Entertained by nervous laughter, oblivious, in their now substantial hush,
To mortality, Then realising starkly;
In everyone of them (or us) that immutable mutability

The monotonous chants of repetitive verse
The priest goes through the motions to pull the
Strings of emotions, do serve
To purge the gulit of neglect. In us all, we
Harbour the hope that ceaseless ceremonies cure
The pain only you could endure

* * *

Yet young or self-absorbed, seeing your emaciated frame
Bedridden with sores and tubes
We felt only piteous sympathy (or shame)

* * *

But we could scarcely see the glint in your eye that day
Halcyon days where you once were, and now forever lay

/Gvoz/
April 14, 2003

Labels: Verses

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