Seventeen Though Seventy One Poem by Akhtar Jawad

The crazy old man, playing cricket on the streets,
With his blocked shoulders and his painful knees,
His spouse warning from the roof of of his house,
Great spectators, singing clouds and dancing trees,

On the television of the clouds' wide screens
The sick old sun was keenly watching the matches,
The old man couldn't read his wise advice,
Just sit and shout on good shots and catches.

Charming fair ladies, rainbows on all the roofs,
Clapping and shouting on the last boundary he hit,
'I am only seventeen and I should now hit a six.'
Though the word uncle didn't like, surely a misfit,

White shirt, white trousers and the white shoes
The road is slippy after the fine mild rains,
Warnings of spouse from the roof of his house,
'Youth day for others, for you injuries and stains.'

'When you'll realize you are no more a youth.'
'Don't disturb my concentration, let me play,
Sweetheart, see my dashing innings of seventy one,
Let me score a century on the lovely youth day.'

Another four, his supporters' exciting demand,
Two raised hands on the top of a neighboring house!
Gathered all the might in his blocked shoulders,
The grandmother's clever agent, a mighty mouse,

An outgoing delivery kissed his bat, he was caught,
Seeing ball resting in the grandson's safe hands,
Standing on the slips of the crazy old man's life,
Old once again and back to the destined lands.

With his painful knees and his aching muscles,
Doctor advised a bed rest to the teen aged old,
Play with the brain without involving your body,
That is a ground whereat you are still gold.