We eulogize our parents, kneel before teachers,
Pay obeisance to idols, and praise every benefactor…
Write poetry on our love, Lyrics to our heart-throb,
Elegies in the heartache and play Endymion for a Selene,
Making rainbows out of our pale inane existence.
But when it comes to thanksgiving, some never figure on the list,
And of those, we are prudent, tongue-tied, or grossly inadequate.
Connate with this corpus from conception
Oh my senses and sensors! You have made me what I am.
But for you I would never have travelled the distances I had,
Nor perceived and indulged in this spectacular world, oh, me!
It grieves to leave, yet a new stint is equally tempting.
And before I am dragged out of this house reluctantly
And watch dumbly, you being impaled and consigned
Let me thank you with all my heart, dear senses and dear limbs!
And as a tribute to you dear frame, I shall leave behind the name!