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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
These were written on the eve of my grandmother's obviously I am dedicating this to her.

The last poem

( This is the only poem that i wrote on the following morning, inspired by a truck driver, i just went for a walk on the national highway, and seeing so many truck drivers i wrote this, i recollect it was very early morning, and i barely slept through the night)

Submitted: December 18, 2006

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Submitted: December 18, 2006




The one that was her husband,
They who were her children;
Some who were her kin;
Acquaintances and relations too,
They who were hers moments before,
The infinite between her and them.
Silence of death hangeth before the house,
Garlands of gloom ironiking the house,
It stood grey among the crowd,
The deep wails solemn,
The sun beat a distant low,
Hidden ,dark ,unradiant.
The steps of death have trodden here!
The steps of death have trodden here!


The faint remembrances of the distant past,
Of love, of joy and of hateful pain,
Her voice resounds through these walls,
The unseen figure still trods about.
Her frail body that once moved about,
At a later morn when tis be complete!
The neighboring dog that bugged her,
But the piggy puppy that helped her,
A silent charm that surrounds her,
And her feeble voice oft drowned,
Her faith in god she held too,
And the garland of her relations.
She always walked a step at a time;
But a day once, a monumentous leap.


Twance lived there, a human and a carpet
Somewhere within the distant past,
The gold brocaded flying carpet,
And the grey mustachioed man
Afar, away together all the time,
Lived had they their worlds,
They had seen it all too.
The bright and the dark of life.
They grew bored, they grew tired,
Rarely but they ever flew,
Fights `an joys ; squabbles `an pains.
Together they lived till until,
The carpet left the man all alone,
The carpet left the man all alone!


Blank faces, glassy eyes;
The flickering candle , hope belies.
The unreal picture `an left behinds
The vain sculptor sculpting away
The one that is not here now
But it another misery of old age
The silent night `an the lonely morning
In these walls must he live to die
Numbered sunsets `an numbed pain
The memories too, left behind
What is but before, gone today
The strange morn `an lonely food
But the world moves on,
So does the interminable wait!


From morn till nigh , must he work
The smell of oil, grease and dust
The paved road, the wooden walls
That be his life, it is his life.
Strive to have a hearty meal,
Must he, till be he old
Every morn be the same,
The frustrating morning, the tired night
All the hopes of his dreams,
Of love, of life, of pleasures simple,
Concreted upon like the tarmac road
So he works for a decent livin`
Still he dreams of better days,
Yet his mornings be the same.

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