Tuesday, March 06, 2007

Untitled

His mother died last night.
He’ll burn her and grow older.
He was a young man last year
when his father died
and even after he lit the pyre.

But, now he’s old
He couldn’t leave home like
Siddhartha
or become Budhha

She left before he could renounce
the world

He cannot leave home.

Men, whose mothers are
dead,
don’t make heroes.

They only grow old
and carry their homes
along.

© Jatin Gandhi, November 2, 1999.

4 comments:

jerry said...

Wonderful -- but why? You can trace some inspirations and sitations, that's led you to write this. This is what I feel. And there's grimace, and there's a loss of hope. But theirs a sense of honour, despite the loss. I felt.

my poetry journal said...

jerry, this is a very old poem, dated nov 1999. i cant remember exactly what situation(s) prompted me.

b v n said...

touching !

Ansh said...

oh this a sad one.. but has a lot of depth.