As I came to the Bagmati river,

The first light of dawn rose over the horizon,

while fires were still licking around the pyre,

as  I Shadowed the ghat.

The old man in a plain dhoti,

tied around the waist,

bent over, lifting a handful of water,

To spill over his head,

repeatedly,

until he washed his body and

offered prayer for the immortal soul.

The shattered water made a misty din.

He dipped an empty pot,

and walked away with it.

towards her grave.

In silence and serenity,

the Bagmati mourned his loss,

While he walked across the Wooden bridge,

Contemplating dear memories,

 of bygone days.