We are all late, except him
We are late for the ceremony of death,
Circumambulating
Meditating
Reciting
the dead have been led to their
kingdom of peace.

We have nothing
save the joy of joining
the ceremony of birth,
the melancholia of dragging our days
through the scathing stretch of
our existence,
our kingdom of life — birth and bread.

His was the existence of peace
Read magazine stories
Ate at restaurants
Slept on the asphalt road
Till he joined the ceremony of death
on a silent night.

With hardly a soul mourning
A prayer-wheel turning
for his rebirth…