Cricket In The Street

My son is dead; will you speak at his funeral?

He was a bright boy, always smiling

And he spent his spare time playing

Cricket in the street.

“I will be a great player,” he told me, many times

“I will play for the country – win the World Cup

And people will see me on TV

All over the world.

You’ll come to see me play, won’t you?”

He’d ask, and smile when I ruffled his hair in reply.

That smile! He was so self-conscious

Of the gap where his milk teeth fell out.

“My teeth will grow again, won’t they?

Otherwise I’ll look so bad

When I’m on TV, with the World Cup in my arms.”

He was curious, too, asking questions

What is that, why is this, when will tomorrow come

On the other side of the world.

But he won’t do any of that again.

I can see through this window, this little opening

Onto the world, children playing

Cricket in the street. And tears blurring my eyes

Tell me almost, that I can see him among them

Running, shouting, waving his arms

But he won’t do that again.

I’d thought to love him through the years

See him grow, see him glow

And now he lies in the next room, cold

And I can’t even see him play

Cricket in the street.

My son is dead, will you speak at his funeral?

Will you come to see him laid to rest

In his burial shroud? Who has the greater right?

You made him as he is now – like God’s hand.

If it was not for you, not for the drone you sent

The drone you sent, in your wisdom, in your power

Which sent metal shredding through his little body

I would not be burying him today

And he would be outside, playing

Cricket in the street.

Copyright B Purkayastha 2012