Sunday, 25 November 2012

At the Funeral

His eyes were bleak, like hope had never crossed their path – ever;
His fingers were mere bones, covered by baggy skin burnt a chocolate brown;
A million lines crisscrossing his skin told tales of a life spent mourning countless losses;
A dirty, tattered cloth, torn and muddy covered his head and face, hiding its ignominy in tattered fringes;
She looked at him, her doe eyes compassionate and her smile luscious, full of hope;
He stared back with hooded unseeing eyes blazing dark fire, sunk in cavernous grief;
It was impossible to guess his age as it was not easy to guess hers;
The grooves around his mouth and the cracks on his feet spoke of a hard life;
Her milk white soft arms and long, smooth neck whispered luxury;
Her smile tentative, she looked once more at him through the lenses of her expensive camera;
The fire blazed and danced in a pagan ritual between them, holding them captive, enthralled;
His eyes reflected the inferno as he looked up letting a tear leak and touch his cheek like a child’s wet kiss;
Her camera clicked at high speed capturing the sorrow of a father mourning his son;
Fire leaped off the pyre, perhaps a son’s last embrace, reaching out for the father who’d loved him beyond reason;
The camera clicked faster as the grieving man jumped back from the licking flames;
They were devouring his son’s body while he watched from a safe distance unlike earlier when he would jump in to save the boy.
Her camera captured it all, saving it for an award-winning show at a stone cold gallery somewhere in Italy or France.
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