Old Age

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


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

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