14 March 2013
Walking against the gravelled path,
A book in one hand, the other a staff,
The old man walks down the lane,
He has not a jumper to protect him from the rain,
I offer him mine,
But he does decline,
His book falls out of his hands,
In a shallow puddle it does land,
So I reach to pick it up for him,
But some of the pages have become soaked within,
He frantically snatches the book,
Sending me a disdainful look,
He opens the cover and roots through pages,
Revealing pictures of him in young age,
He stares at the young lady with tearful eyes,
His lips silently screech his grieving cries,
I stand silent and waiting,
Young people pass elating,
Yet I stand still, not sorrowful but sad,
Unintentionally feeling mad,
Is this what life is? A short journey?
Yet my body is straight, sturdy,
Until the old man looks up once again,
He smiles warmly and then,
Takes the jumper I had offered with gratitude,
Not the slightest of attitudes,
He walks slowly away,
Taking on yet another day.
Yet Another Day. • Opuss № I