Can you stop the rose from withering,
Sun from setting,
Hands from getting unpassionate?
All that remains is memories
And the tyranny of ‘what-ifs’ –
God, bless them!
On this morning of mist and mysteries,
I remember the separation,
With a strangest of smiles,
Slow and Painful away
– with dignity.
The recalling of what was once native
And at once what turned
I surrender to the unceasing
Bark of dogs.