Funereal Love

Oh behold!
A funeral.
Wailing women,
Sobbing men.
Children playing in the backyard
In hushed voices.
Someone told them not be loud,
“But why?”
I heard a small boy shout.
People streaming in
Like cascades of white water.
Some close, some distant.
Mostly silent;
Or with praises of the dead
In whispers.
Red nerves clouded the white of
Several eyes.
or whimpers;
No dry eyes.

Except one.
That had laughter laying on the lids,
As her lips broke into a
A mellifluous Ghazal
Beside the shrouded figure,
Dissipating all the heavy silence,
With perfect notes and rhythms.
Creating a gaping audience,
Out of mourning relatives,
Instigating me to break through
The crowd
And take the front row.

The trance lingered,
For a five minutes or more,
Then a sudden hault,
And a distant giggle
Of a kid in the yard.
“She is waiting for the corpse
To sing the male verse,”
I heard a tiny murmur
Didn’t see it’s source.
And there
Amidst a funeral
In a funereal atmosphere,
I witnessed love
That transcended spheres.
Tears of glee
Trickled down my cheeks,
For the unknown dead
And little known wife.
Morbid are things related to the death
But mortality adds to love,
The dark tinge of red.



This is one image of a barren tree and a moonlit sky that I doodle in almost all my notebooks and today I decided to paint it.
Someone once told me that what you doodle quite often reveals a part of you and I wondered what part of me did he see in the barren tree and the moonlit sky?
I still wonder sometimes that what part of me instigates me to sketch or paint this image so much?
Is it the barren tree that is me or the moonlit sky?