Had I seen the ghosts of this place

They would dance their victory dance;

Glorious vale

Cup, chalice,

Basin;

Tonight on the veranda
I behold 
The crystalline hilltops 
Sublimate into an avalanche
Of snowflakes, in turn
Dissolving into the haze
Of silent mists;

Some souls pass away so quietly that not even the suspiration of their fleeting wings

is heard, or known, to us, among so many other activities, so many other things;

so, this was one such soul, that breathed its last, effortlessly and without pain,

melting away into the unknown, rising to the snowy Himalayan heights, shining forth beyond these dusty plains;

They stand together

The twin stalks

In my backyard,

Sometimes reminders

Of some things not done,

Some weeds not plucked

When it was time to do so;

I.    You are not dead

Why do they call you

Mohenjo-daro

“Mound-of-the Dead”?

You are not dead!

You have never been dead

Or buried

Or cremated

By the scorching banks of the Sindhu;