She died yesterday.
The priest chants mantras irrelevant to the essence of her life. She stood for freedom and path-breaking ideas. Rituals are about beating a trodden path with sticks shaped out of a murdered tree.
Those who pray for the soul to rest in peace know not that she exists beyond their reach – in the street of the sky night walks scattering poems.
Poems that carry strong messages – unheard, unread, unappreciated, but which flicker like an inexhaustible flame in the dark.
Those who encountered her spirit but feared the fire, refuse to acknowledge she was anything more than an anonymous, childless woman who left no heir.
Deep inside they know that a spiritual legacy lives longer than a child, hence they measure a woman by the children she bears and rears, assisted by a man. It facilitates denial of an independent living force.
Written for Prosery Monday at dVerse