The Ash

Wrote this poem at the end of last semester(fourth)... probably in some of the classes.

As lifeless as the body which nowadays,
rising in the wind, do the ashes play,
the wind of transition has taken its toll,
in terms of a life that was perfectly on a roll.

Beholded had his eyes,time and a pain,
the job at the grave was solely to blame,
so into the life and so near the death,
regular were the people who taken their last breath.

Down-to-earth is a man,
who witnesses deaths in the human clan,
in the hue and cry of 'limited time',
his exploits, his evils, does he ban.

His daughter had excelled at educational levels,
as if in the dark night, a knight unravels,
But eclipsed has this knight unravelled,
the poverty line, through their bellies, travelled.
The pennies, the alms he got from the crying souls,
barely drove the house that stood on rickety wooden poles.
Never he prayed for the people to die,
though in those hues and cries, did his money lie.

Persistent smoke, suffocated his lungs now,
frail health, penny wealth, frowned his brows.
The bright future called upon his daughter,
the education, the knowledge that still eluded their lineage.

All to a day, when utensils rusted,
the cot trembled, and the tolerance tested,
the decision had to be taken,
no longer did he go to the grave,
for now the spirit was gone,and
broken were expectations from the fate,
that had once, made his feet stiff and brave.

Deaths became paltry in those days,
the cruel fate sometimes no bait,
somebody had to be rituatlised,
his lovely daughter needed the help,
a candle newly lit, the wick demanded,
the thread to the top.

"Me", trickeled down from his thirsty lips,
as thundrously, to life, the death pips.
Her face grew pale, the permission was negative,
how could she see him dying, just for the money,
that the neighborhood would give,
but he won't understand, the urge to do good for his blood,
the little angel, who, taking his motherly finger had, always tread,
how could she let him, the God she had known.

To him, his body seemed as a dilapidated log,
but direly wanted his spirit, to give her,
the furniture even if it was out of a mite-d wood.

Secretly he kissed the princess, while she was asleep,
the pills he took, he knew, would make her weep,
but the money the people would pay as the tribute,
would make her life easily en route.
All happened as he had thought, and
she still carries his ash,
calm, helping as he always was,
his face, always in front of her eyes,
today, as she nestles on the top.