I Won't Be Here Next Year

I breathe in the odours of the morning,
Soak in the packets of sunlight
That filter through the leaves of the tamarind,
Which sway to the laden monsoonal morning breeze.
The sun struggles to pull itself up, break itself free
From the merry clouds that promise
More wet grass, more puddles,
More life coming into life.
I know I cannot be here next year,
To witness the newer nurseries of plants,
And even more life coming into life.
But I wasn’t here to see
The death of the mother monkey,
Or the Loss of the Father Peacock’s feathers,
Or the Buffalo being hit by the Shuttle service
The year before last.
Life consists in accepting the cruelty of ‘moving on’,
Of slogging yourself to newer destinations,
And driving yourself on...
And in telling yourself that this is how
You’ll be a man.
The Sun is out now,
And its the same everywhere.