by Suborno Barua (ORCiD: 0009-0007-3345-4075)

Legs are bound for the mausoleum,
Placed thirty slow, timid steps, from abode.
Thirty steps it takes, to greet and meet The eternal sleepers.
Living for past 5 years,
On the earthen bed.
Covered in short, picky grass.

The air around seems addictive,
To the truth of serene sleep.
Slumber that brought an end to the once living man, my father,
Was a mawlana.
Having lived his days with pity and piousness, went to deep rest
Five years ago.

Every friday was the
Resurrection day.
Tethered to his pinky finger,
I followed him, and he guided me.

Surrounded, queued with mens in white, black panjabis, I stood.
Tears of some hard looking men fell off.
Some muffled, inseparable voice, with prayers.
Some were serene, beautiful and kind looking.

My father was sound. Smiled from the heart,
Looking to the man-made
Mountains of earth.

Rain drops made Friday’s special.
Petrichor scent asserted something
Much ambrosial.
Dots of drops touched the soft earth,
The hearts of the dead.

For Citation/Reference (APA):

Barua, S. (2026). End Destination. JMAG 1 (1). https://jmag.jaamir.com/end-destination/