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:
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.
jerry, this is a very old poem, dated nov 1999. i cant remember exactly what situation(s) prompted me.
touching !
oh this a sad one.. but has a lot of depth.
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