walking on the road to God knows where,
treading on a path which was still unclear,
I came across a pyre & it was still burning,
the mourners had gone home the vultures had flown away,
for both there remained nothing but ash,
ash of a gray color and some logs still ablaze,
burnt & cold in death gaze,
now I am a man by nature a bit weak,
easy to scare frightened by a tweak,
&  so I moved on,
to stay clear of ghosts, spirits & so on,
it was a bit windy,
& some of the grey stuff fell in my path.
Ash which was grey,
ash which was astray,
it wasn't of an Indian nor a Paki  or Inglistani,
it wasn't of a Hindu  nor a Christian or Islami,
it was simply ash,
born in red culminating into black.
But in a human there is a knowledge lag,
it will all come to dust all grey and black,
the blood you shed the blood you bleed,
the old ones you neglect the babies you feed,
it will always end like this,
a small blot in memory a big one on ground,
you can't bring the red back whatever you try,
at the end in the blazes of death you have to fry,
you can't change  that & I can't either,
so for religions , nations & pride why bother.
It will all come to a smudge ,
thus the spot gave me an urge,
an urge to quench an urge to live for,
is that just a spot or something more ?
Is it a wake up call or is it an invitation to sleep on ?
I don't know that and neither do  you .