Beneath a tree, a schoolboy cried,
His bag lay still by the grave nearby.
“Papa, wake up,” he sobbed in pain,
“They want my fees... or you again.”
A man stood close, with wreaths in hand,
His wife lay near, in the silent land.
He called a shop for silks and light,
For flowers to honour her soul that night.
But then he heard the young boy’s plea,
His heart grew heavy, his mind set free.
He dropped the phone, his voice went low,
“No wreaths today — there’s more to show.”
He walked up slow, with softened tone,
“Here, child — your dad has sent a loan.”
No need for garlands, or ritual flame,
Just help a heart — and light your name.
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