My moon-faced nephew,
eyes which had dreamt
only about you are shut.

After many a dream
and crossing oases,
she got you, your love.

You the fragrance
for which she rejected
the garden's bounties.

In a field of marigolds
she talked to herself.

Her hues lent colour
to your life.

Geetu, epitome of
her every dream,
‘the glory of full moon',
Under heaps of earth
lies the intellect
whose voice teemed with moons,
whose poetry, a repository
of youthful dreams,
won masters' enconiums.

Yes, my moon-like nephew,
one whom we buried was
not only your mother
but voice of an age.

Her work infused the
world with fragrance.

She who on a
voyage of fragrance,
was tormented by flowers' plight.

In a cascading
surge of recognition who knew,
she will leave us all
and be topped by earth
and disintegrate quietly.