Siva was a young man of 30 years.
He was dark, tanned by the Northern sun
A fisherman, who went past
Mannar Island every third day. He had a god above him,
Two hulls of a catamaran on either side,
A boundless aquamarine wilderness below,
An endless orb of fire at daytime,
And starry constellations at nightfall.
And this beautiful life, one fateful day
Crossed over to the other side, the afterlife,
And all he left behind were skid marks
Of a white van that sped, the wheels screeching
And it only took 2 hours more to make
A screaming lung, embrace the stillness
Of the lull after the storm.
Now Siva had soil around him,
Six feet or more under.
 
Some men, they are so pure in heart
It takes only one dust particle to pollute,
Just like Siva’s soul, as pristine
As the virgin sands of Mannar island,
And a few days later, a baobab seedling
Could be seen emerging in Siva’s
Front yard, as if to remind his family
He is still with them in spirit. One week later
Siva’s widow, sees two lines on a slender strip
Drenched in pee, and cries in irony.
A few days before, Siva’s condom had broken
While making love to his wife.
 
It seems legacies are born, when we
Least expect them, like the miracle of life,
So easy to evict and yet so easy to plant.
And in this wilderness, there lies
An equilibrium, between life and death,
And a bevy of gods, sitting in-between,
Directing the two-way traffic. 
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