Sandesh Shinde (14-07-1968 / Mumbai)

I do not understand
as to why the people
are weeping,
crying,
mourning
and
to exhibit their sympathy
to match
or exceed with the compassion
of other in the same pursuit,
shedding the tears
for a poet
who died
writing poems
on everything
which even
the sun could not see
or imagine,
but could not
spell a few words
for whom
he lived,
he tried everything possible,
everything impossible
by making it possible,
and died
and
before the last collapse
entered the endevour
of writing poetry
on the walls of solitude
and confinement
leaving behind
the belief that
he might write
something
on his own epitaph
once everyone
pays the final tribute
and leaves the graveyard,
to show her that
he can write his own elegy,
an elegy of a poet
by the poet.