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
