After the last pyre at the burning ground turns to ash
we take the road home.
The dead one’s kin block our way.
We eat the sweets held out to us.
Eating those sweets, our heavy faces
fill with smiles.
After the last pyre turns to ash
we take the road home.
The sadhus of the burning ground block our way,
we take a sudden pull on the sadhu’s pipe.
When smoke fills our lungs, our minds
grow light.
We forget about death.
We forget the dead.
After the last pyre turns to ash
we take the road home.
We go home.
We wait
for the invitation to the funeral feast.
We are friends of the pyre.
We eat our fill at the funeral feast.
Death, to us, is another word for feasting.
Death, to us, is sweets in the mouth, a pull on the pipe.
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