Old age is luxurious
Ripened mellow fruit
Of the seed’s labour
The winter of life
Cold and barren
But with the riches of all seasons
In its frail bosom.
Old age is a proud tree
Beyond fruit bearing phase
With branches spread
Everywhere.
Rustling green leaves
Provide shade to the summer birds.
Flocked for a purpose
Abandoned otherwise.
Old age is a second childhood
Adamant and insecure
But with wisdom galore.
Pants for attention
And little affection.
Unlike an ambitious child
Blesses even if
Lurched in the cold.
Old age is a stream
Descending down the hill
Carrying with it flowers
And weeds.
With its sagacious waters
It nurtures young rivers
That come her way.
Old age has riches
That youth fails to value.
~Vandana Arora
Pune, India