The man who has walked this city for an age,
Who kept a home, held down a desk,
And in quiet hours, unfolded old fairytales;
Who swam the river, burned with fever,
Loved the mountains, and wept in solitude;
Who scrawled poetry in secret,
Fought battles, and weeded the flowerbed;
Who turned homeward at the call to prayer,
And ran his eyes routinely over the news;
Who, in the drift of sleep, cried out "Mother"
Gave speeches, and sliced the simple vegetables;
Whose soul trembled at the falling of a star,
Who told lies, while truth flashed in his eyes;
Who kept a cat with tender care,
While dust settled on his books, and his umbrella went missing,
Who forgot to bring the groceries home-
Every street, the twin ponds, knew him by heart.
That man will be seen in the city no more.
From this day, from this very moment,
In the chamber of eternal sleep,
His name is etched upon a sorrowing stone.
The writer is a PhD researcher
