While Burning My Father On The River-Bed Poem by Bijay Kant Dubey

Under the open skies,
With the moon shining over,
The stars twinkling up above,
I had been,
Had been burning my father
Near the hamlet
By the highland river
Which it dries all through
Barring the rainy days,
Waters gushing downwards,
Remaining for a few days.

First of all, they brought the body
On a makeshift green bamboo bier,
Placed it near the knee deep midstream,
Made him sit,
Oiled him,
Poured an earthen pitcher full of water,
Tore off the banyan
And made him wear
The new clothes as far possible
For the ritual sake
And was placed on the pyre.

The fire was lit
With the dead body over the wooden logs
And it stared burning,
My father burnt to ashes
One by one
The limbs disappeared they
And it came to naught
And there remained it not anything else
To be called as that of father.
Just with the village folk
I saw him burning,
Smokes bellowing,
Fire flames feeding upon
And licking it all,
The cremators poking
The fire into a blaze,
Pouring in
Clarified butter and kerosene oil.
With fear and suspense,
Hearing the spooky tales
In that dark loneliness,
Away from human haunt and manless area,
I saw,
Saw him burning,
Finishing it all
And it remained not anything
To be called own.