A poem in remembrance of those who lives were cut short by the pandemic.
Flowers in the Rain
In my dream,
I was walking out barefoot in a park.
White lilies were strewn all over the grounds,
each with a name on it –
a wife, a mother, a husband, an uncle.
From nowhere, a gust of wind rose,
and scattered the flowers,
like it was time for them to go,
time for remembrance to end,
for the living to go on living.
Above me, the low clouds gathered
in a sky moist with bitterness,
as though it was about to tear,
as though tragedy can be
cleansed by rain.
For a moment, I stood silent
for one last look at the names,
drenched in the buried
scent of lilies.