Elegy on the death of my grandpa

 

                    My Grandpa! My Grandpa! Each from the side of his bed,

The drowning hearts are weeping out of grief.

He lay cold and close with blood on his head,

Brown and dry as he is a shaded leaf.

 

Grandpa! Wake up. Friends and neighbours all have come,

Dress up, wake fast to wander all we wish.

But, their father rested cold and dead so firm,

Only to find death is harsh.

 

Homely joys had sunken into a withered doghouse of grief

For he cared and consoled one and all when in the gloom,

His striking face and glistering smile were all one wished to thief.

Everything he did was all for them to bloom.

 

The pictures he drew, and poems he wrote, dazzle all these times,

The canopy of shrubs took his hands for a month, stands alive,

Gathering souls of all ages to sing the rhymes,

Nurturing hardships, enthusiastic and positive in life

 

  

Life is but easy prey to the mouth of cruel death.

We look before and after, yearning for more,

Only legacy remains but not a part of the wealth

Life is absurd and vague that consumes like a running sore 

 

They pray for his soul, rest in celestial abbot of tranquillity,

Nursing the wisdom of Buddha and bodhisattvas,

Accomplishing the merits of dharma, and lifting the hell of their gloomy society 

All is what they had prayed for hours and hours.