The Light of Death

The Light of Death


Fire, orange and bright red,
With the ferocity to melt lead,
Purifies a warrior; dead,
Lying on wood; his final bed.

As the flame feeds,
On the rotten flesh,
‘He has died a noble death,’ they say,
To pacify the widow; then pray.

The priest chants.
And chants,
Dutiful, peaceful and unemotional,
While the warrior’s kin,
Weep in sorrow; unconditional.

The children watch on,
Acid tears gush down their cheeks,
A cold sweat drenches their brow,
Their faces without the usual glow.

Children will be children,
They’ll get over it,
Say the all knowing adults,
A few sit.

The people gaze on,
In their cold hearts,
Sorrow ripens into worry,
‘How’ll we sustain another widow?’
Their crocodile tears meet with the pale faces of the young,
Eerily enchanted by the glowing splinters of wood,
Which want to detach themselves from the sins they burn away.

The priest chants,
And chants,
As if smiling and saying,
‘There’s a better life after death.’

The pyre burns all night,
And a good part of the morning,
Only aggravated by the chilly winds,
Which grip the cremation ground,
Howling a strange tune,
‘The sins are going away!’,
The holy men say.

The corpse burns,
The poverty-struck seek warmth from it,
Such is the funeral fire,
Emits warmth for some,
Hot-killing-heat for others.

Occasionally greeted by the celestial bodies,
The distant burning stars,
Saying ‘We told you,
You were destined to die!’
And moved on,
The star-white moonlight,
Pacifies the widow,
In its dim light,
The battle wounds less severe.

The sun’s rays glisten,
The charred remains,
The fire is out,
The smoke rises,
Heavenward,
The soul of the noble man,
Rises gracefully,
Forming signs of his clan,
Filling the sky,
With the magnificence of death.

The ashes are collected early,
By the holy men,
They smear it all over their bodies,
‘An easy way to attain salvation’;
The commoners say,
But did they forget.
The soul has escaped,
In a puff of smoke.

The people return,
The priest chants,
And chants,
Another day for him,
Celebrating the end of the days of the deceased.

They drive away the bloody hounds,
Looking for bits of cooked flesh,
But disappointed by the black char,
They satisfy themselves,
With the blackened bones.

Whatever remains of the courageous man,
Is taken in an earthen urn,
And put into the Holy River,
Where it meets the Sea.