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