The Last Journey
I sat on my haunches, dry eyed
as she motionless and rigid lied
On the cemented, grey floor
near the old decrepit door.
All near and dear ones
were crying in muffled tones.
She lay oblivious to it and the rain
her face serene and erased of all pain.
She had to be dressed in accordance with custom
Like a bride
as she had died
a ‘sobhagavati’.
Her clothes had to be cut off from her stiff, cold body
in front of everybody.
She lay exposed, shriveled
unmindful of the indignity,
In contrast to the dignity
with which she had lived her life,
As a mother and a wife.
She was bathed with ‘Ganga-Jal’
dressed in fine silk and dot of vermillion.
Then began her final journey.
She was put on a funeral pyre,
as the flames leapt higher
Her mortal remains were burnt,
all that was left were some bones and dust.
It was collected in a urn
to be immersed in a sacred river turn by turn.
And carried away to an unknown destination
leaving behind all she had loved with dedication.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
Added by Poetry Lover
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