The sun


This sun is your once Ravi and it is now his call
The weaving of a fine heart that would stop later.
The sun is dead usually, on its very slow daily act.
Can we have a quick funeral in the head please?
The least expensive and salt and tears not much.

 
It was all in the system, in the streets of Hong Kong
That winded down in back alley, among new men
Of eyes that did not see you much but in earphones.

 
His eyes were full of fire, the rage of a funeral fire
But the way their eyes would bore you in the back
They had said their piece but made peace with you.
Ravi’s system is in place, now chairman of nothing.
The sun must set for the day and it is all in system
Where a logout has to be performed for every user.

 

 (Homage to Ravi Kaul, my former colleague and a dear friend who had passed away early this year-the name Ravi means the sun)

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