I know you will grow senile like me, very soon.
Maybe you will regret
because of the bad beginnings, and
elusive endings or maybe not.
But you cannot
undo what has already been done.
You will be lonely,
okay let’s be lenient on you,
at least your manias and phobias will be with you.
The tears will rush from the aisle
of your wrinkled face to the trembling hand.
Those trembling hands, unknowingly, sometimes
will reach near to the heart and ask:
“Am I still alive?”
“You still live there?”
You will never hear any answers, let alone positive answers.
You will only feel a mediocre heartbeat–sometimes,
not more than that.
Your hair, touched by the soul of the icy
snow, will shiver and then sparkle whiter than ever.
Your tattered stomach begging for
morsels of friendship will be filled–
only with past deeds–
and not more than that.
You will sit, lonely, on a bench—
wet by the morning dew
or maybe the tears of the person just like you.
You will play a puzzle game-of-memories
which you have never won and will never win too.
The tangent to reach to the concrete images
will disappear on the way.
You will cry. Clamor. Curse.
But nobody will ever hear you,
because nobody has reached where you are
or they have already crossed where you are.
Throughout the day, you will roam
from the clouds to the rivers, from the sun
to the woods like a cotton drifting in the void.
First, you would tease them and at the end of the day,
you will feel jealous of them;
of their freedom.
You would see mundane creatures, coming
You, because of doubt and fear, will hide behind you!
And in the heart of the night,
again you will wail in pain;
start banging your head on the walls
because there won’t be any dream in your sleep,
say, not even a smirk of nightmares.
What will you do then?