Music for the Dead

Outside my house

I can hear a funeral procession.

Yet, when I gaze down at it

From my balcony

I see little mourning.

I see emaciated percussionists

Beating their drums

And severeal dancers

Intoxicated by local liqour.

But why are they dancing?

Someone has died!

“They are happy,”

I was told.

“Happy that he shall reach heaven.”

Now the road is blocked.

Cars and autorickshaws honk angrily.

Scooterists try to squeeze thier way

Past the procession.

The beats strike a faster pace

And men dance in ecstasy.

And those beats...

They make me want to dance too.

I don't get it.

Those beats are for the dead.

But they're so full of life.