deepundergroundpoetry.com

Being old

Being old is not a crime,
It's rather a play or game of time.

I remember people say Old is gold.�
they love old gold,
But kick parents out, when they become old.

How can you say old isn't beautiful
with the time, I've seen it turns more dutiful.

There is an old lady lives next door.
I watch every morning her brooming the floor.

While telling stories, your cheeks were prawling
due to turning old your teeth were falling

O dear grandpa!
I wish you would know how incredible you were
Even in frenzy hair and vision blur.

I wish I could tell you how you looked like
When you were angry your lips make a line
I know with me, your blessings shine
Living among the stars, I hope you're fine.

One day I know, I too will be old
I'll have to give my hands someone to hold.

my eyes will be little yellowish or dark
My face will turn ugly with wrinkles and warts.
Sporadic weed will dance upon the head,
along with falling hair, this mind will be great.

I'd be Sitting among the grand children, laughing, isn't it miraculous?
While telling stories my vocals won't be clear, isn't it ridiculous?

Isn't it good to entertain some people?
Because of being old, you're acting like a beetle.

One day I asked a child what do you want to be?
He said I'll be soft, kind, and brave like my dadaji.
I asked whom do you love more?
Indicating a person he told, he's the prime iron, and I'm an ore.
I said he's old as rust he can't be prime.
And he said being old is not a crime
it's rather a play or game of time.