Sauvik Chakraverti 1957-2014
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the
public doves,
Let the traffic policeman wear black cotton
gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I
was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now: put out every
one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
- Funeral Blues (IX) by W. H. Auden.
In my Solitude you haunt me
With memories that never die -
- Louis Armstrong/Duke Ellington
