With the bonfire on the lawn,
And coolness in the town,
With lots of words to spare
I remember the day
When my grandfather used to say,
“Son, hear me
As thou shall realize each word of me pay.”
An epitome of knowledge
Or a plethora of experiences,
Words prove too less to define his wisdom
As a person,
Too old to share a lie
Yet too young to give any explanation a try.
The scenery was so apt,
And the surrounding so shy;
So good a place was it to briefly hear
Everything that my grandfather wanted to write
“Son, I come from days of British,
Having seen all what the world wants to relinquish;
Having seen many sparrows in my huts,
Still lesser than my experienced marrows and the guts.
The golden days of my country
And the same as of me;
Both so young, so fast, and so agile;
I still remember the days, son, life was not so futile.
I remember how running around the park,
I had that vibrant spark-
The flow of a river;
I made my own fate shiver.
Son, glorify your age,
The one without any cage;
Now the life looks so grave, so slow,
Always bearing the falsity among men of being naive.
All I carry is the wood of a shepherd,
And the neckband of a dog,
The ache of an accused
And the agility of a surrendered, not considered shrewd.
The heavy dose of medicines,
The braces of the so constable clinics,
The restraints of the age,
And the weak bars of near the chasm cage.
Son, I just wonder;
I just wonder how a day would be;
How a day would feel,
The day I refer
Is a day without medicines.
– Aman Oswal