The wrinkled yet contented centenarian,
Was leaning on a fragile fence of a road,
Having kept his stretcher in front of him,
When I found him on a Monday dawn.
The fish inside the stretcher gleam,
Their gills reminded me of his life,
He might have strived hard to sustain,
Those who were near , dear in his youth.
Those ungrateful ones don’t heed him now.
Neither they need him nor feed him, woe!
The ice in the stretcher is melting though
The rays of the scorching sun burns through.
Are these fish and the past days of this man same,
They are caught, pulled, and sold to be cooked,
Is there time left for those crooked ones to mend?
Alas! At dusk I saw a moaning crowd around him.
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