Here's a poem I wrote in memory of "nanay" three years back. I always ask, why in September?
I should have painted your tomb yellow
not that it's your favorite
but under the sunny skies
it was raining when you stopped
counting your breaths
farmers claimed this
as a sacred ritual of nature
trying to ripen green ricefields
for the souls to feast
the aroma of the first harvest
"kaingin rice."
It's been three years now
but I never came to you
not like the rain who dances
to the tune of moonsoon winds
they offer you fallen kalachuchi flowers
like each week of every month.
But you are
always in my dreams
fresh as a richly plowed open field
and under the sunny skies
we breathe mountains, rivers and lakes
life mingles with death
you and I.
