I am just forty
when my father
at seventy-three's duskglow
runs with
a bundle of surprises..
on his bi-cycle
with enough sweats
he paddles round
the important ports of life..
along with him
certain gloom keeps walking-
flickering wrath shakes hand
overtones of age
make morality thick..
from my table, heaped
with metaphysical knowledge,
books, white sheets of papers,
pens and- - - - -pride!
high-browed intellectuality
smells like branded wine
of dark winter-
a glider I am, I feel..
I peep down
the shackles of samsar..
my father looks too miniature
his movement too humble
his routine path
too trivially composed..
long after I'll see
he is my father
my scaffold
and earnest strength
so tight
and indestructible
for holding up
this precious glider.
A beautiful depiction of the strength a father's love provides. Long may he ride....and even longer still, May you him or him. PEACE
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Beautiful...I love it.