When we went
To place flowers
On the grave of our ancestors
The sight of a blossomed
Cemetery with fresh morning dew drops
On the edges of blades of grass and every
blossoming bud
My
son with ecstasy ran hither and thither
Like meeting soul mates after a long space
He returned and looked at me
For resting the flowers on the dear ones
My
parched eyes searched
For green pastures to bury myself
With a guilt of not inheriting the loom
Of green dream weavers.
(5-10-13)
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