By: Sunil Sharma

Will there be a single tear shed,
Once I am no more?
Someone there—
Emerging from the shadows to
Cry over the simple rough bed
Forever left vacant
In a dim room?
Or, the old rocking chair
Near the iron gates locked,
In the red-bricked courtyard,
Framed by the scented flowers
And spreading bougainvillea,
Kissed by the waves,
The old creaking chair,
Left in a shady corner,
After the dark,
That
Will no longer rock?
Will somebody ever
Remember a small guy,
In a scary world of objects,
Big brands,
Fancy cars/gadgets,
Upscale homes,
Near the waterfronts,
In Venice
Or,
Mumbai,
Or,
Melbourne?
An honest guy who did his 9-to-5 job
Working hard,
Feeding,
And caring for them all,
And who died unsung,
A little part of rusted junk,
Confined
In a civic- hospital bed,
Made of iron,
Facing the wide doors,
In the city of Mogadishu,
Amid the rumble of guns
And mortars,
All alone, eyes blank,
Abandoned by his very own,
Like retreating army,
When he was alive,
And breathing deep,
And, often during nights,
In his restless sleep,
Called out their names,
And dreamed of tiny homes,
Full of fun
That echoed with loud kid- laughter once,
But,
Where, over the years,
He was turned into
A sepia picture,
Tucked away into a cramped attic,
No longer missed.