The Death Of A Man Poem by Mohabeer Beeharry

That man,
Tall, wiry and strong,
Charred for constantly operating in the sun;
Gentle and eyes on the ground,
You would think that he was in deep thought
Not so, he was just a quiet person.

He left early,
Long before daybreak.
I used to think
That it was him who woke the sun up
And opened the book for the new day,
Carrying on his left shoulder
An old and heavy army knapsack.

In the late afternoons
Just before dark,
I watched him make his way back
To his place just opposite,
A reflection of my own father’s house.

I was always touched by his smooth
And gentle ways,
Unlike the rest of the villagers
Who were grumpy, rude, selfish
Almost lousy.

As the day’s work ended,
From morning to sunset
Chasing leaking underground pipes,
He slouched back,
Head bent.

I wondered
Whether it was the loads of foul words
That he collected in the day
For not delivering water in time,
That bended his back.

As he arrived home
And sat in his habitual place,
On a low bench outside,
His back to the wall
Facing the setting sun,
He seldom showed signs of stress,
As he waited for his wife to bring him tea.

One evening
I heard a scream
And saw his wife in a state.

He had come back as usual,
Sat on his bench,
His back to the wall
As the sun,
In a glorious array of multifarious colours
Was sinking in front of him.
And he had gone down with the sun.
His life had also set.

That was one of the greatest occurrences
That I know of,
Which taught me a great lesson in life,
Even death sometimes could be beautiful.