“Feathers live longer,”
I whisper.
The dead bird sings once more,
one for the road.
Later, at the funeral we reach
on time of the singer
croon the composition of smoke.
The cremation looks too thronged.
The background score
drowns life.
We live one step short
of all the promises and possibilities.
The gathering shushes me,
and I nod;
I have been loquacious
in the company of the bird
no more;
nevermore; never enough.
(Kushal Poddar is an author and a father, former editor of Words Surfacing. He has authored eight books, and his works have been translated into eleven languages. He tweets at @Kushalpoe. Views expressed in this article are personal and may not necessarily reflect the views of Outlook Magazine)
