Is this what it means to be chosen?

To be the firewood in another man’s offering?

Jagadguru, heed my final prayer

Blessed be you Achyuta—The Unfailing,

You have given me back my sons,

Yet the house does not know them.

Their laughter is softer, their names

slower to leave my tongue.

And when I touch their faces,

I find only the memory of the cold,

That once settled on their skin.

Blessed be you Madhava—Born of fortune,

Though what was my fortune?

To be seen, only when needed?

To be heard, when another

had to learn?

Was my grief a mere grain of rice,

Measured against the hunger of a prince?

Blessed be you Hari—The One who takes away,

Know well, what you have taken.

I have them back, but I am still searching.

I have them back, but my hands remain open.

I have them back, but something in me

has broken.

Blessed be you Govinda—He who rescues,

Yet who did you save?

Was it the warrior who doubted,

or the father who never did?

He walked away with his lesson.

I walked away with my open hands

That will always reach for something

they no longer know how to hold.

The lamps are still lit,

but I do not wait for the idol's gaze.

The temple doors are open,

but I do not step inside.

The sky is full of stars,

but I do not ask, if you are among them.

Peace, Peace! Peace?

The prayers have burned.

The offerings are gone.

Only the ashes remain.