Elegy Written In a Country Churchyard
Hullo, folks!
Do you hear me?
You didn’t hear me when I was dying.
At least hear me now, when I’m dead and buried.
I am, as you know, Jinesh,
Buried here—in this churchyard at Poonthura,
Buried on Sunday—
Like Solomon Grundy!
I did hear you when you were crying—
During the recent floods,
Rushed to your help,
Saved more than a hundred of you.
You all praised me, called me a hero,
Lined the street I lived in
With posters, flex boards, banners and whatnot.
Now you all know that I, as a pillion rider,
Was hit by a passing truck,
Which further ran over my helping hands,
Crushing them—
Thus, adding grievous injury to injury!
I lay there on the roadside,
Crying aloud for help,
Which fell on your deaf years:
You were all busy, all in a nervous hurry—
Off to Timbuktu!
I wept and cried for help, by turns.
But I was left there to die unwept and unsung,
Though I had been honoured.
Now you all may say: RIP
But, you see, I remain restless!
***
Copyright ©
Ram R. V.
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