The fearless man was gulping down liquors and singing over his voice…
a song of void commitments,
a verse of posthumous contentment.
Just then the rain came and with that came the small faces with smeared evening.
If it was a cremation, then I must forgot to take the hand of my friend…
but the old man was still singing,
a broken voice but dissolving mercilessly with raindrops…
Now he was singing about women and cremation
and how a love poem was written when he saw a body of a woman in the eternal river.
The night was long…the man was speaking incoherently,
but still there was a possiblity in his voice,
a joy of a silent shore…
There was something between us…the drunk man was taking me in with the smell of raw whiskey…
How could I stop the climax when I knew I have experienced the greatest touch of art and death with the oscillating eyes of that man.

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Linda Wisdom.

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