Cloves

The sky is closed for sunshine
Clouds have covered and conquered to reign,
Wind blows with frivolous grace,
Charged up atmosphere ready to burst in pain.
.
The man sits on the slab
Waiting and watching for the events to turn,
His hairs sticking to his head,
Oil shining through them,
White beards on his face,
Signified his experiences and knowledge.
.
Just a few yards away,
A couple passed swaying hands,
And giggling into each other, moving astray,
Her memories started by bubbling up,
Bringing images frame by frame.
.
The earliest memory of his love
Was not rose, but few of those aromatic spices called clove,
His toothache has forced him to seek,
A sudden remedy from the landowner's dwelling.
.
Time flew,
And the next image was
Of both of them singing
As the wind flew
Around them in swirls,
As they went on long drive in his car,
Long drives and radios
Used to be their special to-dos.
.
Alas! The same moments that were the happiest,
When turned into memories,
Made the protagonist of my words feel pathetically inadequate.
.
Death is never romantic,
Never beautiful,
No-one, not even thousand predictions can prepare one.
.
He sat there, feeling the wind,
And listened to the faint whispers,
Of his own heartbeat,
That still uttered to him,
"Press the cloves between your teeth, and you won't be suffering."
.
Today, it had a new meaning.
.
- Raj Nandani
.
Napowrimo 2020
Day 26
Poem 26
.
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