Poezja

One by one the bones he gathered,
From the midst of the dying fire.
His eyes fell on the nearby pyre;
He looked at his own body burning;
He saw her and himself in the frame’
Corner to corner in flame.
 
She wore a red saree and green blouse;
Bright colours she always liked;
Her beautiful hair upto the waist;
Thin lips seemed secrets keep.
She was running away from him,
Looking aside to see him after her.
 
He would have her in his arms,
Kiss her thin lips as she struggled.
They would lay on the green meadow,
Surrounded by tall lush grasses.
She whispered sweetly in his ear,
‘Take me with you, love me forever’.
 
The flame now rose higher;
He felt the heat and his own words,
‘I love thee not, I love another’.
She uttered nothing;
She went away never turning back.
 
He dug into the fire for her bones,
His body and soul numb.
In the holy river he scattered them.
 
Now the pot he handed to the bereaved.
Then to the pyre next he staggered.
Solace and penance he found there.