To the lost one

Your collection
of penguin classics
sit
rotting
patiently
in a tin trunk
beneath
fathers bed.


Mother has
aged
tremendously
from
what
you last
saw her as.


She parted
with your
trousers
shirts
shoes,socks
with great
reluctance


As if you
would
pop up one day
and ask her
the whereabouts
of your
belongings you
so recklessly
left behind.


You also
left behind you
a
mountain
of
highly
inflammable
questions
which
catch
fire and
become
a raging
inferno
at the slightest
sympathy/query


They leave behind
a charred heap
of flaky ashes
which
cannot be
submerged
into the ganges
even, accompanied
by
chanting
of sacred
mantras.

We
have gathered
them
in our hearts
where
we keep them
 guarded
from
winds of
change.


No pyres lit
no dirges sung
no tears shed
you took away
the wrenching
grief
of having
to
see you burn with
your half-baked ideas
of changing the
world.


The only
jarring
remnant
is an
unfortunate
habit of staring
at homeless
wanderers
looking
for an aquiline
nose
a broken
incisor
an
unforgotten
 sparkle
in the eyes

Motu
I am afraid
I am
beginning
to even
forget
what
you looked
like.