Be it no more than just a glass of water,
A walking-stick alive rendered by daughter,
Care and concern, warm smile, none far too hotter;
If you follow my poem's flight,
Pray, hold it under no search light,
Worse, under prying microscope,
Nor keen discreet ears, I do hope.
Comes autumn, follows fall,
Brown leaves begin to fall,
And when it snows in winter,
Trees look like skeletons that can't stir.
Let me not play tuneless in today's time,
Some purists sure get praised as Gandhian,
Yet, crass nevertheless is no more crime,
Old values are hailed may be in heaven.
A man on grey side of his long green age,
With wiser ways and values he preserves,
Can scarce claim still to be wisdom-filled sage;
And oft wears a face he seldom deserves.