As the son wrote his father’s obit,
He would write mostly of debris
Of a dusty table with old papers,
Daughters on dowries and debt.
But those dearest who are dead
Have large beauty eyes in faces.
A father’s sons are eye’s apples
But son’s fathers are eye coins?
House was leaning on coconut
Through a son’s growing years.
Can son not hold a pretty moon
In a bent coconut frond to sky?
(On reading a beautiful poem “Obituary” by A.K.Ramanujan)