Commanding
an army of peons,
he conquered divisions
cast by human foibles, taking
in stride all that he must
because, of course, the future
generations need sustenance.

Each wrinkle folds over itself
tells a story of Faridkot and Amritsar,
of Burrabazar and Lake Town,
his dying grounds are decided:
the embers haunt these environs and
our minds. Faltering steps assume mythical arguments
of survival. He knew he was immortal:
now his grandsons watch him
waste away
ever so slowly. The sunken
eyeballs that watch us lose
their gleam-over ever so quickly, the days
wash by: my father. And his brothers look
on in disbelief, the giver of life going
so cheaply, undone by simple diseases,
by afflictions to our basest urges. We watch
him shrink,
slip
into reveries and dreams:
they summon memories that trouble us so.

Wishes wash over, trying to cling onto
all that they have done without ever knowing
what they even thought,
their was done, ours we offer for
we know not what we want.