Old age

Once met that good ol'man
Sitting on a slab of a rock,
He had crowfeet at his brows,
'How old are you?'
I asked,
He seemed short in hearing,
He said nothing,
Only looked at me with a blank face,
His dress was simple
A pair of trousers
And a flannel shirt,
His face looked impassive at first,

The day light was then dimming
And the horizon had that glow
Which many painters and photographers
Tried for ages to catch in their works,
The man seemed very much part of the scape,
And then he looked at me straight
And cleared his throat,
'I am eighty and you?'
'Half almost of your age...'
I replied,
He smiled,
'Why are you sitting here?'
I asked,
'O ...it is my daily ritual,
I come here every day,
And sit here
And watch the sunset,
And other things...
For i have got all the time in my hand
And all those which i failed to savour
In my youth, i try to understand them,
Like how this world is made
So beautiful by some cosmic force,
And how the world moves
Following a pattern of its own,
Despite wars and carnage
And bloodbath,
Everything in this world
Is perpetually following a course...
And no one, can alter it...
Is it not something magnificient?
Something wonderous?
Something evocative enough to
Cherish specially at this hour?'
The old man did not ask,
He was, i thought, making
Rhetorical queries,
Answers of which
Were not to be sought,
I thought,
And old age crept
In me.


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