Someone is gone.
Gone from this place,
where biscuits are passed,
where flags are raised,
where banners fly
while death sits quietly
in the corner of the room.
Relatives weep in rhythmic waves,
pausing for laughter in hushed rooms,
where one tells stories,
another deals cards,
and one in the back pours drinks.
The body lies in stillness
while the world moves like ants,
serving, cooking, arranging, forgetting.
Strange, isn’t it?
He was just here yesterday.
If he returned an hour late from a trip,
we would’ve worried.
But now he has left for good,
and no one knows where.
The Buddha spoke
this rare human life,
so easily lost,
so foolishly wasted.
A grain of dust on a fingernail
can escape the four hells,
but he,
with a mountain of merit waiting to be made,
chose bricks, sons, and status.
Now he is gone.
All that’s left is a photo,
a poster:
“May you attain Nirvana.”
But he clung too tightly,
and now he drifts
with the sins he forgot to cleanse.
Are you not afraid?
Tomorrow, it might be your face in the coffin.
Your name whispered through the sobs.
Your alms given every 7 days,
every 3 months,
every year,
until even your name fades
between laughter and forgotten blessings.
You labored, sinned,
sacrificed truth for them
but in the four hells,
no one will remember your name.
Not even you.
So when you see a funeral,
don’t look at them.
Look at yourself.
You’re next.
And with you may go
the one chance you had
to hear the Dhamma
and escape forever
this cycle of becoming.
Awaken.
Turn your mind to good friends.
Tear the veil from your eyes.
See.
And be free.
