The chinar leaves are falling on the tombstones of all those interred
yesterdays, turning red and yellow as if desecrating summer, as if
blaspheming spring, as if there is something auspicious about dying
in robes of holy vermilion and turmeric, colours of beginnings, colours
of marriage, the earth a bride, led towards the waiting river in a
funereal march, dressed in the red of sunset and henna, in the yellow
gold of sunlight beaded upon her veil, her lover, the sky, watching from
a distance, his eyes cold and grey. Remembering is a colourless prayer
whispered to a cloud. Every morning the sky changes, the clouds are
replaced and the supplication that leaves my lips begins a new word.
Another leaf falls through the emptiness, held in the palm of the wind
for a moment, before it is buried with the rest. There is no path to return
to the bough. Every morning the tree changes, the birds are replaced
and your name that leaves my lips turns yellow and red as it ends.