Father, it’s too late for making up with you
The time for debates on honour is over now
You won, didn’t you? You left me without goodbye
Or a look that told of your feelings for me.
All I could do was light an oil lamp
And place it beside your head
After they had wrapped you in off-white khaddar
And laid you on our drawing room floor.
Everyone who knew you brought you a wreath
Either of lilies or of rose,
At last to spare your tired legs I cried
Leave them standing against the wall.
You turned cold on the drawing room floor
Colder than your heart ever was, father.
The house was filled with red-eyed people
And someone read the Gita
Some weeping would have looked real nice
It is done in the best of families you know.
All I could do was sprinkle eau de cologne on you
And decorate your chest with flowers,
She is the daughter that went astray
I heard someone whisper
The one who caused him the greatest pain
And look at her now, acting solemn.
Should I have loved you, father
More than I did
That wasn’t so easy to do
If I have loved others, father,
I swear I have loved you the most.