Nekkhamma Poem by Bishnupada Sethi

His frame, once tall,
now folded at the hip—
illness after illness had thinned him.
I urged him to come along
to the town where I lived.

A nonagenarian,
hands cracked like old leather,
he was hesitant to leave his birthplace.
With a smile he would say—
‘I'll do so when I'm done here.'

After a few years, one day
he called me to come.
Old quarrels buried, land signed away,
no debt left to pay.
He was ready—
with a soft smile he said,
‘I don't need to stay here anymore.'

He sat in the car,
didn't look back at what lay behind.
There was no greed or wish.
He moved on, wishing never to return.

For a few more months
he sat by the window of his little space,
gaze cast over the distant horizon—
he never spoke of his past
nor anything he had possessed,
never enquired
about what was left behind.

As if he already held
the shape of what was coming.