Along the asphalt path
autumn shot leaves rattled like dice.
In double ranks, with heads bowed low
A handful of relatives
six coolies. And a poet at dusk.
Aves fell from our lips like tears.
His Mother almost twice his age
proffered her arms as if to give him life,
her brows un-wrinkling his childhood days.
Clods of earth hammered
the coffin lid like fists.
Beneath a mute sky we bowed our heads to pray.
At dusk we turned for home.
A good simple soul had passed away.