THIS IS LIFE
When you die, people many will tears shed, some may cry n yet a few may even shriek
This for days few will go on; people generally good about you also speak
Then this sentiment slowly dies, it becomes very feeble, absolutely weak
Even your own kids will away give your treasured things, in the coming months or weeks
Once every year offer food to a crow they may, who dips in the "kheer" his beak
You may be garlanded, with a sandal wood garland, after being captured in a frame sleek
Your grandchildren remember you may vaguely, a memory blurred n weak
Perhaps some inquisitive one, may questions ask; and your details seek.
THAT'S THE END OF YOUR STORY.
Armin Dutia Motashaw
