(Arun Jaitley: 1952—2019)
The flag is at half-mast, a gloom shrouds the chancel of the land;
The one who hugged oblivion was once the counsel of the land.
Soft spoken, discreet, a maven of silken-tongued satires,
He unmasked and foxed many a weasel of the land.
How many skies can a flyer scale without the Kite-runner?
Someone has fed the airstreams and groundswell of the land.
The epic ends here; the music ceases: a titan is silent.
Hold back the chorus in the fervent farewell of the land.
Trees thrum with birds, birds with birdsong. Flowers bloom.
Humans blather and bluster, benight the shell of the land.
Some shoot with fatwas, some shoot with guns. Minions
fall like ninepins from the bustling carousel of the land.
Uma, come and sip hooch laced with liver of lizards,
As crooked of the state splurge on Zinfandel of the land.