“And as I age, I look around,
The worlds seem to align,
In defying the laws of existence.
Why is it, oh really,
The streaks of grey on my canvas depict nothing more than a story,
One of love, compassion, yearning, and turmoil;
Yet all the semblance
It seems only to reflect my oldness and ‘misery’ of mine.
Is it true that with age you become wise, or is it true that with age you tolerate the guise?
Of a young man in any but his own scries?
About beauty, about life, about time,
Is my experiential existence not worth a dime?”
The old man says to his wife,
And while I peek through the door
Of their house of heritage, off the shore,
All I see is a room of wisdom, blinded to the eyes of the sore.
The elder prevails over the youngster
Pertaining to the mind,
Be it through their lives galore
Or the annals you can find;
The stories we weave are rooted
To the ones, the first ones of our kind.
Written by Tarini Sai Padmanabhuni for MTTN
Edited by Shivraj Herur for MTTN
Featured Image courtesy of NYTimes.com
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