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By DIPANJAN BHATTACHARJEE Wherefore mourn for the casket thou?
'Tis deep beneath the earthen chest.
Peacefully in slumber in eternal rest,
And ne'er to return to the world of now.

More sands come from yon mount lands,
From weathered rocks to deserts bare.
And one an inch the buried layers,
As little dust sleep 'neath the sands.

Of blooming flowers adorning garths,
As to senescence with for sure,
And decay to dust wit a soul so pure,
Awaiting an episode of another birth.

Each little child that's born on crust,
Gets a chance to grow each day,
And hushed childhood from a yonder bay,
Stands witness to a gleeful past.

All that's true to thine mortal eyes,
Shall a day to the dust but go.
And newness thence shall neatly grow,
And soar to the realms of yonder skies.

Weep not o man for the days foregone,
Embrace the road that comes thy way.
For new crust forms where graves once lay,
And thus the wheels of time roll on.

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