Ode: Speaking Tales of Dead
Often I have walked down the solemn boulevard,
that leads to the realms of the afterlife.
Long have I cherished the tales that the dead did forbear in life;
stories upon which I stumble as I walk amidst graves in a breathing graveyard.
A watcher; I have observed in the afterglow,
the beauty that fascinates a dreamer; a masterful adagio.
It hath been as I have forever seen,
the faith a man puts upon the revered figurine,
and as a walk in the graveyard would tell;
my friends: you speak no false tale.
But what seems apparelled in such unworldly light?
The fresh dew upon the graves; a new life to you doth felicite.
I stand among you; a wanderer wondering about such celestial sights,
A stranger; visualizing lives that unknown epitaph incites.
Do men know of the wonders you share?
The voids in time filled to the brim,
by treasured hours a poet seeks to enrich their vim.
Life knows not about death or his act of being a concessionaire
or the charade that guides a man;
delivering him to creation's perfect plan.
I am alive yet I know not to live,
Death doth teach me new ways to perceive.
The things that I have lost; was meant to be lost,
You bestow visions, a lifetime would cost.
I ponder upon the grace; the mercy you show,
Graves - you give; thrones for Kings below.
You treat everyone equal and fair,
like only God would ever dare.
Are you a lover?
For in you; man doth seem to discover,
a ballad surreal.
Teacher perhaps; to me you seem,
a stalwart in your own academe.
But tell me true if you may choose to,
Is there a life beyond those dark walls?
I see you do provide me with an ambiguous cue,
citings from scriptures; like the woeful schmalz,
rings in my ears;
a shot at immortality; you pass me by
like a cavalier.
I see that mortal rules to you do not apply.
Divinity you are personified;
as death you are justified.
And what of the winds that rattle your palace doors?
The symphony you hear when a friend joins your circle in form of familial sorrow,
is but a transition my dearest amigo.
For winds may never be the saboteurs
like your disciples, disciplined to resist the mortal call;
and sights that once to you did appall.
Oh! What beauty you exude
as in your grave you denude,
like the prince you were meant to be,
humbled down to a mere toiler by societies decree.
So it must be as you repeatedly say,
You hold the power over life like nothing else may.
You are more than a muse to me comrade.
You denote things that I will never know.
If I may I would rather forego,
the privilege of life without being sad.
I see in you what no man can,
an eternity with you is but a span;
a romance, undying and true,
you comfort me of all my rue.
I pace the space amongst the graves,
I watch the world pass you by as you linger on in your enclaves.
And I feel peace; like never before,
something you can never schnorr.
The men you cradle upon their death,
Give life to nature with their last breath.
And many who worship you do come to your shrine,
Bury a dead leave; a past in you they confine
as they start anew.
You are a siren; if I may compare,
singing to attract one to their fatal affair.
But in you they find respite,
Hark! The cages you break at last,
new motives you do solicite,
and save the sinking ship with broken mast.
You are the champion sent to write,
things that endorse humanly plight,
things that a man often contrite,
as the soul for judgement doth take flight.
But what might I say to you when you come?
You are a dream, I'm yet to succumb.
And a man in his life may many a times close on you,
but you only treat what is meant to,
and sending them back to life you save their adieu,
only to chaperone them when their time is through.
Have I told you before of my gratitude towards you?
Death - you bring together reunions long overdue,
albeit sad but in nature true,
the spirit hears words that in life was to him due.
Graves - you hold the vessel but not the soul,
yet you are revered for your role.
If I were to say a line in praise,
the mystery shrouding your patron; your virtue truly portrays.
And I find myself ecstatic when I sit on your lap,
You treat me like a child; frivolous in his prance,
showing me life beyond what you take as advance,
your essence; an elysian map.
You do not pretend as the trickster called life,
with your sycthe in hand, what need have you of knife?
The utopia life creates is but a lie;
phantom faces at the graveyard would confirm and not deny,
the misery you put to an end,
of lives no one else could comprehend.
So you are what you say you are,
a wraith so near and yet so far.
The placid faces that you hide,
have had their share of hearse ride;
but tell me Ephesians if you may,
how am I to prepare for my day?
Come as you may.
I'll greet you with a smile,
Lived my life long before it were to beguile
by treacherous time flowing in waves,
crests and troughs each passing day,
and even now the undertaker digs the graves,
where I'll join you for an eternity with an epoch to slander away.
And long before I be in my death bed,
I will be wanting to share this with the world outside,
Graveyards are so beautiful, so misread;
when it truly is but an intersection between life and death.
If you are still perturbed by the dead,
you will never understand; unread all that you just read.
- ©2017. 'Ode: Speaking Tales of Dead' by Adhish Mazumder (©adhishmazumder).