For the Pilgrims of Uttarkhand

The earth flowed,
a river in spate, waters
churned in an inferno.

Death came to you,
sibilant, in a searching
wetness.

Why did my God,
He, the pillar of fire,
do nothing?

You were pilgrims,
utterly His.
Today, they will consign

What remains of you,
putrid and lifeless
to His cleansing embrace.

Consign you to fire,
if the rain wills it, weeping
wetness.

Hindu, I cry too.
And pray. Shiva, Shakti,
Amma, Bhoodevi

Mother nature be kind.