You are ready to leave,
time trickles through the windpipe,
heart bleeds with memories that the mind can’t hold,
skin burns, breast a dried peach,
girdle of pain wraps where the silk draped once.
The sparrow flies from the attic, abandons the nest it built
among the old photo albums I had stacked away;
the crow sits at the window cocking its head,
its feathers reflect the pale moon;
the old sandal tree in the garden rots at its roots.
I sit at the porch with Garuda Puranam,
watch the glow in the eastern sky after a night’s vigil.
A white mist hangs over my house,
the exit of a soul is no mean task and
I am earmarked to witness the spectacle.