On the riverbank, there is half burnt
Firewood, an old pillow, a tattered quilt
And a broken terracotta pot
All spread out all over the place.
Four bamboo sticks are at four corners,
Still burning with smoke.
The water from the river flows and it washes
All the charred firewood left,
And it soaks the torn quilt and pillows.
Only, the body is not there.
Those who watched the cremation
— Have also left.
So, the wind starts to blow
In the dark of the night
Crying for the deceased.
Sudipta Biswas
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/crematorium-4/
