Yogendra Guragain
These are the stairs where the dead gets burned to ashes.
Nonetheless, the ghat looks lonely and bereft of dead bodies today
Its tranquility has spilled over to the other side of the river as well
Having failed to pick the sprawling smell from the burning corpse,
vulturous crows have flown away’
Actually the ghat has turned desolate without the bereaved family and neighbors treading on its cobblestones
The lines of trees used to stand still and hear the murmur of the priests chanting last-rite mantras
Pedestrians moving across the bridge used to stop and have a peep over its railings
Children waiting to grab the flying coins have simply vanished
Smoke rising out of flaming pyres would bring flavor into the air
A kind of uncertainty is reflected upon the eyes of firemen, florists and nearby grocers
They are staring towards the entrance of the ghat
They have a suspicion: have people stopped to die?
The riverbanks are panicking with the fear of losing their everyday commotion
Even though the commotion comes at the cost of lives beings snatched away from their loved ones.
[Yogendra Guragain is a poet of Nepali origin, priestly based in New York, USA.]