We all stood around our father’s body,
Laid out like an ancient Patriarch,
Unseeing eyes tilted towards acceptance,
Later I sat by the garden-waters and wept,
Remembering how he used to show me
His books, family treasures, one by one.
I then returned to my own place,
Tranquil in the hot season
Dry wind sighing through pine and eucalyptus.
But worming through the myriad-mazes
Of my dreams crept an uninvited guest,
The intimation of my mortality.