It was probably the moustache That attracted the fly This was probably the last time He would be buzzed And the first time That he would not know. There was a lot of white The drapes, the sarees, the cotton With which his toes and the thumbs Were tied. When you are dead I guess these things don't matter The color, the flies and the incense That invades the nostrils Until you feel heady With his death. When you are dead I guess you are Probably just dead And it's different From just not being alive.
Together, under a clear blue sky