The poem decided to take birth.
It looked for the poet.
It found him.
But he was buried-
Under the irrevocable presence-
Of his absence.
The poem took birth,
As a red flower on his grave.
Adieu Unknown Poet
Once upon a time, there was a poet. No one knew him. Yet the generations that shared time and space with him admired his poems greatly. They sung those poems and kept those lines in the depths of their hearts. The people did not feel bad or awkward to engrave the poems in the depths of their hearts, to make those lines a part of their existence, because those lines were the same blood and flesh as theirs. Their body and soul, therefore, did not reject the poetic transplantation.
One day the people saw an old man lying on the ground. He was taken to the hospital so that he could find ease in dying. Until some one found from the folded sleeves of his shirt a piece of poem, he was a strange old man devoid of relationships, family and friends. The moment after their realization that he was the poet who consecrated their hearts with his words, thoughts and sighs, the people found it hard to neglect the message the poet had conveyed through his death: he lived free of chains, and confinements that bound human lives known by names such as relations, family, friends. His death made him well known, not his poems, because his death too was a poem written with him as a symbol loaded full with implications if eternal sentimentality. The people had little difficulty to take him to their souls, because he too, like his poems, was of the same blood and flesh as the people.
Today is the day the poet died: A. Ayyappan. Adieu.