Open Writing

I

Father died at eighty eight
I know not when my time will come
His youngest son was also there
A doctor from the Netherlands
Two samples for test report were sent
The US had a question mark
"Was it cancer of the lungs?"
Scotland replied, silent dumb
To tell or not to tell him this
Was the only question for us
"It would be best to tell", we felt
And tell him we did- as best we could
"Is this what I got in the end?
I did not smoke, I did not drink.
The only vice I had in life
Was a pinch of snuff once a way"
Is what he said, that father mine,
As of others- eight in all
I did not laugh, I did not cry
I wondered at his innocence
"Is this the eldest son who is at hand?"
Asked the pyre man who wanted his say
I said "No, But I shan’t do it alone”
We three brothers lit the pyre
And sent our Father on-
On his way to Eternity

II

Here I am at fifty eight
With grey hair on my balding pate
A daughter, wife are both at home
My wistful thoughts- a wish for Home
Of writing something sane and sound
Of feelings and thought for you- and you
I know no land but this my own
To read your pulse or mental state
I need no one to tell me when
My time will come, and how
I need no samples to be sent
Across the seven seas
I drink, I smoke but also think
Of morrow, and the day after
Of not my kin but all the world
That is for me my Home
I need no pyre to be lit for me
I need no ganga jal
All I want is a simple smile
On every face I know
As they see me on my way
To Eternity or damnation
All I want, and all I need
Are simple smiles around
And- silence