Illustration from Book of Job by William Blake

I spoke to god the other day,
as to my window he made his way.
Pattering wildly on the pane,
in small droplets of rain.

He thought he knew his very best
he wore a dagger up his  sleeves

He thought he was number one
he rode untamed like a hurricane

Tumultuous smoke from the funeral pyre rose upwards, blending with grey smog that already hung over the groaning city of Kathmandu. A sharp bitter smell assailed Hari’s nostrils almost choking him, but he gulped it down like water, and his eyes stung from smoke. Only yesterday Geeta had been there with him, bright and jovial when she was at her best, foul-tempered and bickering when she was at her worst but, she had been there and her presence in his life had made a conspicuous difference.