Stars fall over
the pass of
smudged grey as always,
barren, desolate ‒
a world dropped dead
into Dante’s Ninth.
By the old railway,
I cradle your urn,
twisting the lid,
scattering ashes that
return on a
wet wind wave,
As your particles
my soul blinks
behind gritted lids.
Entombed in musty folds:
dust enriched Banaras silk
embroidered with golden yarn,
forever echoing colonial rule
for a century, a western charm.
Wrapped in Mother’s cherish,
dressing up death in opulent threads:
tobacco-stained, dyed caviar-black,
easing primal pain in cancerous dark.
A homecoming gift, laden in rupees,
sailing seas below winking skies as
moonlight waltzes on jhallar edges
caressing shining eastern essence.
Intricate piercing of twilight material
crafting flawless Mughal patterns
with fine threads, trellis bound,
snaring the weaver's soul.