The holy cloth covered his body.
except for his swollen face.
The colorful Marigold gently,

laid on his still chest.

His body reposed on the,

stack of chopped dry logs,
spread on a rough stone platform,

as the Priest’s peformed,

 last religious ritual,

on his immortal soul.

With a whoosh,

 the dried wood caught fire, and
the flames licked around the pyre.
The logs spluttered and hissed,
as the thick column of white smoke, 
wafted up from the burning body.

The Bagmati river silently witnessed
the demise as I deeply mourned,
standing beside the burning pyre

 of my Grandfather's,
while the entire body burnt to ashes,
just before my eyes.