In death's dulled aftermath
weeps the house
none sees its tears
for the one it held within
for many years
who it nurtured in walled comfort
inducing a sense of permanence
till last night under the stars
came to fetch him the hearse
and he left without caring a fig
in haste for the final benediction
and the burning logs
feigning a peace
as if he wouldn't miss
and not be missed
under the sun
by anyone.
One man less
the house too would heal.
Death is not a big deal.
Pradip Chattopadhyay
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/not-a-big-deal/
