A SERIES OF SO CALLED POETRY

3.INTERPRETING MIRACLES

he never said he would walk on water

neither did he attempt it in the neighbourhood lake

he never brought pastries from thin air,

nor did he vanquish snakes 

slithering through our hallways ..

and it never rained 

when he played the flute..

but 

the day he died,

there was a strange fragrance 

in the house of our dirty streets..

people who used his believing heart

to run their errands

and scoundrels who trampled over the flowers 

of his incredible naivety

lost their sleep in their cosy beds..

children thronged his corpse,

still laughing over the bland dragon flies

and vividly colored bananas 

he gave them everyday..

the rain that started after 

the funeral 

went on for three days and three nights..

 just before the pall bearers came

and the hearse was almost ready,

a leaf from our porch tree

slowly descended to the ground..

when the little boy picked it up 

with curious hands,

somehow , we  remembered his grandfather's

guileless smile..

 that was when we saw him 

arise from the corpse ,

and walk past the mourners,

offering his shoulder 

yet again ,

to the pall bearers...

laughing aloud 

to himself, 

as he narrates to them

another of his meaningless 

and empty jokes..