An old man walks with his experience
And his adorable paunch,

With an ailment in his pocket,
A newspaper ‘neath his arm.

Keen eyes for the steps ahead,
Not so much for the drunken path,

Chained to the table of time,
Where he finds his daily bread,

A life earned with saved coins
Weighs more than numbered days,

Not so much for the wild routines,
He cares for his morning walk,

A cup of tea that he makes himself,
And saccharine from his guilty tart.

He walks through the society,
Survives in their modern art,

Straddles along the beach
With swiftness in his early start,

To find a bench for his tired stick
That cares for his youthful walks,

He would never stoop so low
If it weren’t to pick seashells

Of his commonplace profession—
Souvenirs from a forgotten desk,

And collect clams for another dream
On the bench of his languid calm.

The young is scanned with disgruntled eyes—
A collation of hopeless qualms,

If age was just a number,
He knew he had won it all.

He thinks not of the time ahead,
But often of the days bygone,

He doesn’t complain of body as much,
As he does about love lost,

“Why would He give wings to children
If they were to not return at all?”

Unkept promises he tends to keep
Quite close to his lonely heart.

Closer are the battles he lost
Near his mind’s rampart,

Unspoken words still remain
In the pages of an unsent draft,

Forgotten men still linger
In the limbo of his memory strands,

Faces that he had always known
Played characters in an utter farce,

Chuckles of the playful youth
Whispers in his barren land,

He looks at his childhood play
With a bucket of forgotten sand,

And cares to spend an hour,
At the bookmarks of his memoir

And thinks in length to write again
If only he had power,

And flings his little arms,
To laugh at the finish line,

And mumbles the name of Lord again
to thank Him for the time.

He fumbles for words to speak,
With a clear head of what he wants,

Prays for the peace in world,
More than his crumbling form.