I am old. I have lost six teeth
From my shrunkengums
My breasts are shrivelled gourds
My babes have morphed into parents
All but one. I have buried my eldest son
Every year twists lines on my face
I think I ‘m a wicker basket
With knotty bones
And a heart in a metal casket
No possession claims me
Next to my skin, like a rosary
I wore my dead son's hair in a silver locket
In sorrow I wore it
Till a thief stole it
I am not ageing well
My days are coins unspent
I am jealous of the hawk that wheels in the high sky
My feet are claggy's cement
Ageing is as inevitable as the tides
As stars in their cosmic motions
I look at nodding harebells
And see the ghostly heads
Of monks at their devotions
I love the depth of this poem. Memories from the past. I hope that the beauty of the skies, a scoop of early morning peace and a flow of love out of our heart may brighten the days. Creative writing is a true gift. Excellent poem.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Ageing is as inevitable as the tides As stars in their cosmic motions.....it's pathetic expression where age the maker of wicker sense, where the time comes to all enjoyable moments of life....