I Have Been To My Grave

By Varsha Khangwal

On a chirpy morning

in a silent nook,

I stood behind the old tree

to look at my grave.

The stone with creeks

bears my name long lost,

leaves strewn all over

no flower, not even dried.

The sparrow hums

to mark the arrival

of visitors

to remember their own.

Fresh flowers, clean slab

A dear one.

was it,

who they lost?

I hear steps and hide

behind the trunk

to see a few more

pass by.

Has no one been to my grave lately?

Does no one ever?

I decide to pause

and find for myself.

Morn turns to noon

scorching sun scares

the birds away.

Still no sign of visitors.

I sit beside the tree

and see a squirrel cross.

‘No one comes to this stone!’

she says as she frolicks away.

It is about dusk.

I must return.

How lonely dear grave!

As lonely as I ever were.

By Varsha Khangwal