The Years I Still Have

I am in Haridwar. Haridwar is a holy town where people wash sins in the Ganges.
I watch the waves touch my feet, then tumble over the cobblestones, take the curve and veer off.
I watch the horizon dissolve, vanish into the darkness of the night.
These kind acts of nature are reminders of the years I still have.
There is absolute uniformity in the sound from conch-shells. 
The blower has no control over the notes of appeasement.
The blower is dressed like a sage. I cannot vouch if he is one.
I hear the cow-bells shake off satisfaction, 
I envy the bovines heading home for a regular meal from the wife of the herdsman. 
The cows have before them a whole night of masticating after the day-long grazing is done.
The river or horizons or even the cows and their sweet  moos are mere physical things.
An angel comes in my dream and proclaims that we are products of time.
Though men often wish not to ponder over this labyrinth of metaphysics --
Nothing is truer than death, death is real, it is the only truth --
The angel doesn’t explain in so many words, simply leaves the footpath of left over life ahead. 
I sit on a stone to study the footprints left by the muster of crows, 
What made them descend to the ground although they have wings?
What did they forage? 
Oh angel, you are evanescent as are my dreams. Do not go away. I long for you. I have no power to criticise or doubt. 
I will even drink for your presence -- though I stopped drinking long ago.
There, let us join! Young monks prepare for the aarti*  of mother Ganges!
The lights from the aarti act as beacons for the dingy boats of sins,
Are there  labs to check the density of sins or instruments to measure the river’s purity?
A horde of pelicans fill the wintry sky with rosy feathers and fade out
Giving the sky back it’s blue. 
Nothing is permanent -- everything seems good, everything –
And that’s why I’d feel secure when I close my eyes later in the night.

*Offerings accompanying prayers