March Of Time Poem by Sharad Rajimwale

Do not the fresh shoots appear
to hasten the fall of yellowed leaves?
The fallen form of withered blossom

too soon
dropped for even the Old Time to
raise its hat in respect?

Or is it that the width of sunlight
is an illusion
crossing the world
from one end to the other
in urgent haste?

Do the printed months of calendar
on the wall
flutter in quick succession
or is it the dry wind
rushing through open window
that
whips up the defined time-frames
to mock the
time -frozen eyes
that still smoke with the freshness
of dear-sad experiences
thirty years ago?

-- Sharad Rajimwale, Jodhpur, India