When I Will Be No More In This World, You Will Feel It, Feel It, My Love Poem by Bijay Kant Dubey

When I will be no more, you will come to feel it, my love,
Who was I, what did I do for you,
How do you order me and do I the work at your command,
You like an officer ordering and I doing your work,
You will feel it, feel it, someday, my love,
When I will be no more in this world?

For your love, struggled, suffered and sacrificed I my life,
For your love sacrificed my all
And ask you now, what have I for you,
What have I for you, my love,
I know it that you are in love with the other,
But how long will she be yours?

My love, when I will not be here in this world,
But your friends will come to see you,
To ask, how are you,
You will somehow take the food of yours
In the same unclean dish,
You will yourself make tea and take.

Let the day come when you will come to feel it, feel it
And realize,
How was my love like,
How if those who just came to do ta-ta, bye-bye,
Try to distinguish
What the difference in between her love and my love?

My love you will in the old age and will weep remembering me,
My love, what I did for you,
You will take my name and weep,
Once gone, shall not come again,
You just try to feel it, feel it now
When the time is in your hands.

The husband posing as if he were dead with the motionless tongue
Out of the lips and with closed eyes,
Motionless and still
And marking how the wife acts,
The wife trying to awake
And he giving the pose of being dead.

With tears in the eyes, she tries to test the acting hero,
Testing the love of his wife,
Whether artificial or natural,
Whether she weeps or not,
But the smiles beaming
And he unable to hold himself in check.


Part II
And now I feeling the load of the house, of being alone
After the death of my wife,
Unable to wash my dish,
Unable to make tea,
But am doing all that,
Here is none to look after me.

My love, where are you,
When had you been, I could not feel it,
When had you been,
Now how alone have I become,
How sad and lonely
After your going!

When you used to be away, I used to feel it then
But not for permanently,
When you used to ill and sick,
I used to feel it,
But now I am feeling it.

Now feel I the heavens breaking upon
And I crushed under,
Into the debris,
The wreckage of my imagery
And such a phase of life,
How to ignore that!

Who to help me, I an old man walking with the stick
Keeping the pouch to my close
On which the eyes of many,
Yet to be partitioned
Among the conflicting siblings,
The bone of contention,
All working upon doubt and suspense,
There lies my pass-book and my bank-account
Like the earthed pitcher with silver coins.